


Superstar

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, First Kiss, First Love, First Meeting, Greg is famous, M/M, Mycroft hates attention, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is a celebrity, and an unwilling one. As a young man he aimed high and succeeded with frightening rapidity; now everything he does seems to increase the attention he’s only wants rid of. And he meets a man to whom obscurity is everything. When both their lives are thrown into danger, Mycroft must decide whether or not he’s willing to give up that obscurity to save his relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to re-write this and re-post it at some point, due to some issues with characterization that's making it very difficult for me to continue this. That's why there's been so much of a delay with any sorts of updates for this. However, due to the sheer amount of other things going on, it's going to be a significant amount of time before that happens.
> 
> So for now, consider this fic on hiatus, to be re-written as time allows.
> 
> You can follow me on [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for an idea of when I start working on this again.

“Sod it all,” Gregory Lestrade muttered, his palms digging into his forehead. He could feel his pulse throbbing in a vein on his forehead and he cringed. Anger did not become him. Running a hand through his rapidly silvering hair, he slumped back in the reclining chair, staring blankly at the laptop in front of him. The email from his agent detailing his latest novel’s ongoing date with the bestseller chart was looking back at him. Any other author would be pleased at the news. Greg just wished that the ground would open up and swallow him.

He was good at anything he tried. Midas’s touch, his Mum used to joke. When Greg had landed his first acting role at thirteen, he had been catapulted into instant stardom. He took bigger and bigger roles, finally starring in a long-running detective series that lasted twelve seasons before it petered out. It was (according to the ever-present tabloids) due to two of his costars having an affair with the director - at the same time. He rolled his eyes. His performance, of course, had been acclaimed. Constantly.

Greg had taken a break when he was twenty nine to write novels, figuring he could avoid the public at least a little that way. How wrong he was. If anything, his first novel had propelled him even farther into the spotlight, to the point he had several paparazzi perched permanently on his doorstop. It wasn’t logical and he didn’t understand it. Then again, what the paps did was rarely logical. Sally had insisted on having a gate installed and his entire home walled off. Greg had insisted on having a secret exit installed.

How his consultant from the police force could make it undetected past the army of paparazzi, he had no idea. How he managed it with his blogger hidden behind him, Greg couldn’t even begin to fathom. Sherlock Holmes was a mass of contradictions. Completely ignorant of all decent social customs (unless it suited him otherwise), Sherlock was otherwise brilliant, even if he did make everyone he met want to punch him. That’s what John was for. John Watson (former army doctor, current blogger) was just as much of a mystery. He had dropped into Sherlock’s life six months ago and had become a constant presence. John didn’t have Sherlock’s intellect, but he often added the human aspect that Sherlock’s tales were missing.

The phone rang, causing him to jump. He glared at the number, recognizing it as Sally’s, before roughly thumbing the answer key and pressing the mobile to his ear. “What?”

“You should be happy!” she retorted. He rolled his eyes, knowing she couldn’t see him and delighting in the break from her sarcasm.

“What, you mean thrilled over more paparazzi camping out on my doorstop?” His fingers drummed roughly on the desktop, the phone between his ear and the crook of his neck. “You wouldn’t be calling for nothing. What do you want?”

“Your next book proposal, of course. When do you meet with the Freak?” Sally’s voice dripped with disdain on the last word and Greg rolled his eyes. Her dislike of Sherlock was well-known around the publishing office after he deduced her affair with the married assistant in another department.

“I don’t know. I’ll text him later. Don’t know if I’ll be able to leave without getting smothered for the next week, though.” Greg craned his head to see out the window, looking at the people hovered at the end of his driveway in front of the gate.

“Oh, they’ll leave eventually,” Sally crooned, her voice falsely reassuring. “Or you’ll do something interesting and they’ll be all over you again.”

“You mean like exist?” Greg snorted. “I’m going to go for a walk or something.”

“Don’t forget glasses.”

“Like I would. I’m not some naive pop star, Sally.” Standing, Greg walked over to the table, where his sunglasses were perched, waiting to be picked up. “G’bye.” Hanging up the call, Greg tucked the mobile into his trousers pocket and slipped on the glasses. Although he preferred to work in his pyjamas, when he went out he wore casual, nondescript clothing. Jeans and some kind of loose, forgettable shirt.

Slipping out the secret door he reserved for these occasions, he shuffled off. Learning how to be nondescript and escape attention was something any popular figure mastered quickly. It didn’t always last long (eventually the paparazzi figured out who he was) but it would allow him an hour or two of peace. Pulling out his phone, he sent a text to Sherlock. ‘Anything new? - GL’ Slipping the mobile back in his pocket, he continued on his way. Although he wasn’t able to get out often, he enjoyed going to the local park and spending some time in its quiet surroundings. It was one place the paparazzi generally didn’t breech.

Lost in his thoughts, Greg didn’t notice the sleek, unmarked black car idling by the pavement. It continued forward, drawing even with his movements. Greg stopped after about three metres and frowned. Slowly the window rolled itself down, and a dark-haired, attractive (if you liked women, which Greg didn’t - not after his ex-wife, anyway), leggy woman sat staring at a phone held in her hand. “Hello,” she said, her voice bored. He paused for a second, and then continued walking. Paparazzi he could handle. Cars stalking him? Not so much. Although this definitely wasn’t a typical paparazzi. For one, the woman was too bored and not nearly interested enough in Greg. This was something entirely new.

His mobile pinged and he jumped. In any other creature, the noise the woman could have been termed a snort. It just didn’t seem right for her. ‘Get in the bloody car. SH’ Greg sighed. What had Sherlock gotten up to this time? However, Greg needed the bloody wanker for his intelligence and his ability to help Greg with plot holes when his novel took a turn for the unexpected. Sherlock had not steered him wrong before, so reluctantly Greg opened the door and sat inside, ignoring the smirk the woman shot his way.

‘You didn’t get involved in the mafia or something, did you? GL’ Greg’s mind was working furiously. It would very much be part of Sherlock’s nature to end up involved with some type of organized crime. Although if Greg was being kidnapped, it was so far a very nice kidnapping. Paparazzi free. He thought he could possibly get used to such a thing. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to tell me where we’re going, would you?” The brunette rolled her eyes and shook her head, and Greg decided to enjoy the ride while he could and relaxed into the seat, watching the city go by as the car drove. If he was going to die, hopefully it’d be over quickly. Otherwise he needed to get back to either the park or his apartment. Preferably the park.

‘Boring. SH’ Greg rolled his eyes at the text. Everything was boring to Sherlock, with the exception of some particularly devious murders. Which was good news for Greg, at least. The more complex the better, and Sherlock was a vast resource of crimes and criminal behavior. Greg’s fingers tapped nervously on his knees and he stared out the window. The car slowed to a halt in front of a rather dingy looking warehouse. Greg was pleased to see the first building he’d been to in ages without any paparazzi lurking around outside.

“Go inside now.” The brunette looked up from her mobile and looked pointedly towards the entrance. Greg nodded and sauntering into the warehouse. His mind was conjuring various scenarios, from a serial killer (but a stylish one) to an overzealous fan. This was the first non-scripted suspenseful moment he had encountered - well, except that one truly exceptional time with that one truly determined stalker and why was he thinking about that now when he was going into this creepy building on the advice of one completely insane Sherlock Holmes? Shaking the spare thoughts from his head, he forced himself to focus. He continued down the hallway.

“Ahh, Gregory Lestrade.” The voice sent chills down Greg’s spine and he looked up. All he saw was a posh bloke in a suit that probably cost as much as his relatively expensive flat did in a month. The man was tall - taller than him by a couple inches - and lean. He was like one long line from his head - auburn hair, slightly thinning - to his toes. Piercing blue eyes bored into Greg’s. He wondered if they could read his mind.

“Are you part of the mafia?” Greg asked before he could stop himself. A slight smile twisted on the other man’s face and he leaned on the umbrella held in his right hand.

“No, of course not. Nothing as…plebeian as the mafia.” The other man seemed amused at such an idea. Greg leaned back against the wall, attempting to appear unconcerned about his kidnapping. There were no guns, no cameras – really, the warehouse seemed to have been selected as the site due to its ability to be discrete.

“So, what can I do for you? I’m guessing you had me kidnapped for a reason, or you just like borrowing people off the streets in the middle of the day. Better not keep me long, or my agent will have a stroke.” Greg smiled his cheeky grin, imagining Sally’s reaction to her star author simply disappearing. As if summoned, his phone went off. ‘Where the bloody hell are you? Are you with the Freak?’ Greg read the text and resisted the urge to roll his eyes, tucking the phone back in his pocket as he did so.

“You came voluntarily, Mr. Lestrade.” The man’s smile was plastered so firmly on his face that Greg was convinced if he poked the expression, it would be made out of plastic. Greg fought to stop the giggle that wanted to escape from his lips. He watched the other man’s eyes narrow slightly as if reading his thoughts, and Greg forced a casual, unaffected look back on his face.

“Voluntarily. Sure.” Greg rolled his eyes. Being followed by the car for a block, Sherlock’s texts - something was off. However, Greg did enjoy a bit of excitement in his life. Maybe things were getting boring. It was almost like being on TV again. If he had to admit it to anyone, he’d admit it to himself - he did miss acting, if only a little. There was something exhilarating about seeing a character you loved come to life. Or hated. There were some of his film credits that he didn’t watch much anymore. Hell, he didn’t watch like anything of his, and he wasn’t the only actor he knew that did that.

“I’m curious as to the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes.” The man’s voice was crisp and ice-cold. Greg snorted.

“Why? What do you want to know?” Greg watched as the auburn-haired man twirled the umbrella in his hand before resting its tip against the concrete floor. He took the time to visibly relax, leaning against the wall and appearing nonchalant. If he was going to be kidnapped, held prisoner, and asked random questions, he might as well enjoy the freedom from the outside world for a bit. Besides, he could definitely use it in his next novel. Bad guy kidnaps detective for interrogation. A laugh escaped Greg’s lips and he froze, watching the other man’s eyebrows rise a slight amount. Greg forced a smile. “Sorry.”

“I want to know where the ideas for your last novel came from.” The ice-blue eyes narrowed slightly and Greg’s body language stiffened in response.

“Is that a threat?” he inquired mildly. “Besides, I don’t even know who you are. I’m pretty sure my agent and publisher would kill me if I divulged some of that information. Sherlock certainly would.”

The taller man smirked just a bit - Greg could see it starting at the corner of his lips. “So Sherlock is your informant, then.”

“Possibly.” Greg scuffed his shoe, seemingly uninterested in the conversation. It was a verbal sparring match, and it was delightful. “Your name, good sir?” The taller man inclined his head – Greg figured that it was how he showed surprise. His eyes narrowed and the focus Greg was under became even more intense. The scrutiny made Greg itch, but he forced himself to hold still.

“Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.” The man tasted the words as he said them, grimacing as if they were not to his taste. So it wasn’t information he gave up often, then.

“Are you related to Sherlock?” Greg asked, his voice mildly deceptive as if the information wasn’t important to him at all. The smug look came back on the other man’s face and Greg swore inside. Apparently this man - Mycroft, Greg told himself - was as good at reading people as his relative. Sherlock had relatives? Inwardly, Greg cringed at the mental picture, and then stifled a laugh. Attempting to picture such a household made Greg want to laugh further. He straightened up and shoved the thoughts back again.

“I’m his older brother.” Greg absorbed this tidbit of information while he examined his nails, looking as if he had all the time in the world.

“And? If you want to know about him, or rather, my relationship with him, why don’t you ask him?” He looked up and met Mycroft’s gaze solidly with his own. If he was going to play the game of intimidation, Greg was going to win. He’d learned from the best, after all. When filming his detective show Greg had spent more time with real detectives than he had with the other actors.

“Do you have an older brother, Mr. Lestrade?” He leaned on the umbrella for support, his eyes boring into the older man. “Ah, no. I see you don’t.” Greg felt his eyebrows quirk slightly. “You’re also single, live alone, and prone to isolating yourself for long periods of writing. Well, except for the cat,” Mycroft amended.

“Are you sure about the cat?” Greg tilted himself forward, smiling slightly. He saw a slight shift in Mycroft’s face before it tightened back into the fake smile, guarding any and all of his emotions that he might want to display.

“I assure you, Mr. Lestrade. I’m sure. The small hairs on your shirt sleeve indicate a cat - a tabby, short haired, calico in colour. Most likely yours. Possibly an acquaintance’s, but since you live alone, that kind of intimate acquaintance is unlikely. Your clothing is tidy. Casual and nondescript, designed to hide from the paparazzi. Since you are a novelist and work at home, it’s unlikely you dress up to write at your desk. Your body language is casual. Possibly you write in your pyjamas. Thus, you were dressing comfortably for a walk around the park, as indicated by the direction you were walking in.” Mycroft tilted his head, his gaze cocky.

Greg threw a smirk at the man. “Close. The cat’s not mine - he stays at Sally’s office. Was there yesterday.” The two stood in silence for a few moments. Greg watched Mycroft intently. It didn’t look like he was going to end up dead from this encounter. That was a positive. Mycroft appeared to be staring at him as if he was a bug that would not fit properly under the microscope. Greg adored it. He loved being able to ruffle the tightly-wound feathers of the intense posh blokes. This one, he felt, was probably one of the most difficult to crack. He was the Ice Man.

Greg didn’t flinch when his phone beeped, although he saw Mycroft’s gaze narrow. Completely ignoring Mycroft for the moment, he pulled out his phone and opened the appropriate app. He almost laughed when he saw the text. ‘If my boring brother is done kidnapping you, I have some case files you want. If he’s not done, come anyway. SH’

Mycroft sighed. “He did always have a flair for the dramatic, Sherlock.” Greg couldn’t bite back a laugh as he used the hand holding the mobile to gesture to the abandoned warehouse. The corner of Mycroft’s lips curved up in the ghost of a smile. Greg snorted, watching Mycroft adjust his grip on his umbrella. “We will meet again, Mr. Lestrade.”

“Greg,” the silver-haired man offered. If he was going to get kidnapped on a regular basis, he might as well be friendly with his kidnapper. It made things a lot less awkward. Maybe next time they would meet somewhere else. Although the abandoned warehouse certainly had its appeal. Mycroft examined him closely, eyes intent. Greg grinned cheerfully back. He had avoided answering really anything that had been asked and had thrown Mr. Fancy Pants for the loop. It’d been a delightful verbal match and he was just about ready to get back to the work he was supposed to be doing.

“Gregory.” Mycroft inclined his head, twirling the umbrella as he turned around and walked off. Greg watched him go, torn between amusement and disbelief. What had just happened? Carefully he replayed the whole situation in his head. Had he been - flirting? With the Ice Man?

“This way.” Brunette appeared at the entranceway, her focus on the mobile phone held in her hand.

“I don’t suppose you’d give me your name, would you?” Greg flashed her his most winning smile. The woman stared at him, her gaze remarkably similar to Mycroft’s. Greg wondered if it was a side effect of working with the other man for so long.

“You may call me…Anthea,” she said.

“Is that your real name?” Greg asked, walking out to the unmarked car and getting in without a fuss. She merely looked at him and raised an eyebrow before returning her attention to the phone. “Well, yes, I suppose that was a dumb question.” Anthea didn’t even pretend to roll her eyes at him that time, instead tapping furiously away at the delicate keys.

The drive back to Greg’s back door was silent and uneventful, Greg staring out the window as Anthea steadily ignored him. He was dropped off where they had picked up him. It was not long before he was back in his home. He was thankful that Anthea had avoided dropping him at his front door - he couldn’t even fathom what would have happened if he had been dropped off at his front door in an unmarked black car with an attractive woman in it. The thought made him cringe.

“Well that was interesting,” he said to no one. Walking over to the window, he glanced outside and was relieved to see far fewer paparazzi than he had that morning. Flipping on the news, he discovered why. Some popular young starlet had wrecked a car or something ridiculous about twenty minutes away. Hopefully photos of the wreck paid better than photos of him.

‘Come if convenient. SH’ Greg stared at his phone, chuckling ruefully. Sherlock had perfect timing. His phone buzzed again. ‘If inconvenient SH’ Greg raised his eyebrows at the half-finished text. That was unusual for Sherlock. His phone buzzed for a third time, and this time Greg rolled his eyes before opening the text. ‘Sorry. Took his phone. If you’re free, we should get a drink. I can chain him to the wall. JW’ The mental image sprang unbidden to his mind, although it was easily banished. It wasn’t the first time that Greg had realized he did not want to know the true nature of John’s relationship with Sherlock. He doubted it would be the last.

‘Heading your way. Meet at the usual place? GL’ John’s confirmation came moments later, and for the second time in a day Greg found himself slipping out his secret exit incognito. The walk was a short one, the location familiar to both parties. It was a club that catered solely to the exclusive - the Diogenes. Greg had to pay an arm and a leg to maintain his membership, but it was worth it. For one, it kept him in contact with John and his tall, leggy stalker. Although the rules of the joint were strict, they also allowed for absolute privacy, something Greg rarely enjoyed. No paparazzi would follow him around, shouting at him and snapping photos. Here, speech was expressly forbidden in more locations than it was allowed, and royalty and the high income intermingled.

It didn’t take Greg long to spot Sherlock standing in a corner, a sullen look on his face. John was in front of him, his darker blue eyes stern and his arms crossed in front of his chest. The two seemed to be having a conversation that solely involved eyebrow movements, as Greg watched as eyebrows went up and down in turn, eyes being added for extra effect. He snorted silently. Pausing, he reviewed his encounter with Mycroft earlier in the day, looking for any sort of familial resemblance between him and Sherlock. Greg wasn’t able to come up with any, having spent the better part of two minutes looking Sherlock up and down. He was thankful that he was not in public, because only God knew what the tabloids would make of him standing and staring at another man.

John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, his face breaking out into his expressive smile when he caught sight of Greg. Shooting Sherlock a glare so rapidly that Greg could have sworn it didn’t happen, John gestured for Greg to come over. Greg walked over just as Sherlock strode off officiously. John rolled his eyes and followed, waiting for Greg go before he continued into one of the rooms they would be able to commander for their conversation.

John bolted the door behind them, making sure it was locked securely before he sat down at the comfortable table. “Been a while, Greg! How are things?” He reached out and shook Greg’s hand, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Sally told me I’m on the best seller’s list again.” Greg rolled his eyes, startling a chuckle out of John. “The bloody paparazzi won’t leave me alone.”

“How’d you manage to sneak out here, then?” John relaxed against the back of the chair, lounging. The corner of his eyes crinkled as he looked at Sherlock. The tall man had his long limbs practically dangling off the edges of the comfortable armchair he was in, obviously bored by the small talk.

“Believe it or not, my house has a hidden exit -”

“Out through the second bedroom on the right side. Exits above the gated garden. Boring.” Sherlock huffed and sank farther into the chair when John rolled his eyes. “What did my brother want?”

“So he is your brother, then?” Greg shifted slightly in his chair, avoiding John’s curious glance. “You two look nothing alike.” John snorted at this. Greg shrugged. “They don’t.”

“You’re avoiding the question. Interesting.” Sherlock’s icy eyes narrowed and Greg resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.

“There’s avoiding the question and there’s stating a fact. I was doing the latter, Sherlock.” Greg settled further into his armchair, rolling his eyes as Sherlock snorted. “What do you want?” Sherlock’s body had changed - this was his focused face. His body was relaxed, elbows on the arms of the chair with his fingers steepled under his chin. Sherlock’s eyes were piercing, like they could see all that Greg kept hidden

The sad thing was that the sod probably could. Sherlock read people like books, no matter what they attempted to hide. It was a rather depressing thought. “He asked me about you, is all. Oh, and the idea for my last novel,” he shrugged, slumping back in the chair as he did so. “Relatively harmless.”

“And?” Sherlock prompted.

“And?” Greg shot back.

“You lower the IQ of the whole room when you resort to repetition, Lestrade.” Sherlock shook his head minutely and leaned back, seemingly satisfied by what he had saw. Greg shot a somewhat pleading glance at John. The bastard sat there grinning smugly at Sherlock. Once Greg was safe and away from the Holmes of the world, he was going to take John down to a bar and punch him for looking so smug when Greg wanted to run away. It wasn’t right.

“Good thing it’s only you and John, eh?”

“Oi!” John protested. Sherlock smirked.

“How’d you know he was meeting me, anyway?” Greg blinked, the thought not having occurred to him.

“I was hacking the security camera feeds. Obviously.” Sherlock shrugged as if it was obvious. To him, it was. What was a little cyber stalking between friends, right?

“Bit not good.” John’s voice was quiet, a reminder between the two, and Greg’s eyes flicked between the two briefly before deciding it was another thing that fell in the realm of Did Not Want To Know. Soon that particular estate would need a whole new wing.

“You have some new material for me?” Greg settled back in his chair, steepling his own fingers under his chin. In his haste to leave he had left his notepad at home, but Sherlock didn’t need to know that. Not that he really thought it had escaped Sherlock’s attention. That thought was confirmed when John handed over a large legal pad with Greg’s favorite type of pen resting on the tab at the top. “Thanks,” he murmured to John, rough fingers smoothing over the crinkly newness of the unmarked paper. He loved opening new legal pads - or reams of paper - anything. It was ridiculous and something he shared with precious few, but it was true.

The next few hours passed so fast that when Greg left the Diogenes, his head was still spinning with the details of the cases Sherlock had thrown at him. The deductions were superb and the cases tight-knit and fascinating, with several plot twists that had left Greg wanting more. Few believed the cases in his novel actually had basis in fact. Even fewer knew that there was a single person who was the source of his ideas.

In a way, Greg loved Sherlock Holmes. The man was absolutely, utterly brilliant. If Greg had to be absolutely shallow, he was also fantastic looking in a leggy, cheekbone sort of way. However, an absolute lack of social skills (and a persistent blonde blogger) quickly and happily put to rest any sort of attraction Greg might have ever harbored for the man. Mycroft, though. Greg pondered this thought momentarily. The walk back to his flat was short and it wasn’t long before he was back inside, his thoughts still firmly on the other man.

Mycroft was most definitely his type. Taller than he was. Handsome in a classic sort of way, not conventionally so. A tall, lithe frame, exuding power and confidence and charisma that even the bravest person seemed to lack. The icy demeanor that couldn’t seem to sink its hooks into Greg - how everything Mycroft had tried had not succeeded. Greg grinned at the thought. Conventional looks were not what he desired. The raw power that Mycroft exuded, however, was almost as deadly as sex appeal. Worst case, he mused, it most definitely wouldn’t be a bad idea to run into him again. Maybe next time Greg could have a surprise for him.

Greg sat down in front of his laptop, typing up the notes that he had recorded from his meeting with Sherlock and John while the ideas were still fresh in his mind. The more he remembered, the more likely he’d be able to utilise all of the details he had been given. None of his stories were completely based on what Sherlock told him - Greg was an author, after all. And a good one, despite all of his attempts otherwise.

Greg thought for a few seconds before pulling up an Internet window and opening it to a search engine. Typing ‘Mycroft Holmes’ into it gave him a few results relating to Sherlock - although no mention of them being brothers - and very little else. Greg tapped his fingers against his chest. There was something about Mycroft that he couldn’t ignore, something that seemed to draw him to the other man. It was the first time in a while he had even considered dating. After his wife of three years left him for another man, Greg had counted himself out of the game.

Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, Greg sent his outline to the printer. It was time to start marking things up the old fashioned way. Sherlock could provide the notes - the crimes, the inspiration. It was Greg’s job to pull it all together in a way that made sense to normal people. John provided the bits that Sherlock couldn’t, and Greg tied them together into an elegant, surprising storyline.

Sending a rapid text to Sally, indicating the success of his meeting with Sherlock, Greg got up and grabbed his outlining clipboard. He pulled the printed papers from the printer and settled down, a pen held loosely in his dominant hand.

It wasn’t long before Greg got a crick in his neck. Standing up, he set the outline down next to him and walked to his bedroom, trading slightly more professional wear for a pair of beaten cotton pyjamas - Greg’s favorite, and his designated outlining clothes. It was a matter of moments before he was settled back down on his couch, the outline on his lap. The tip of the pen was in his mouth and he chewed on it, pondering the plot point he was stuck on.

There was a knock at his door. Greg looked up, still absentmindedly worrying the tip of the pen between his lips. No one ever knocked on his door. Sally had long passed the knocking stage - well, she would still knock, but she would barge in - and no one else ever came as far as his door. That’s what security was for. Setting aside his outline, and conscious of the fact that he was in his pyjamas, Greg walked to the door.

He glanced through the peephole and froze. On the other side was - was Mycroft. Dressed in a three piece suit. Greg looked down at his tattered pyjamas and then back up at the peephole. He watched as Mycroft checked his watch, sighed, and rang the doorbell again.

“I know you’re in there.” Greg jumped as Mycroft’s voice came floating through the thin barrier of the door.

“Isn’t that a bit stalkerish?” he asked, deciding to open the door. Greg stood there with it half open, staring at Mycroft. He had changed. This suit was a pale navy, the tie an elegantly styled light blue, flecked with a variety of contrasting colours that suited the overall look. The umbrella was dangling from Mycroft’s right hand - why did one need an umbrella in dry weather, anyway?

“I do not do ‘stalkerish’, Gregory.” Carefully Mycroft walked inside. Greg shut the door behind him, feeling almost chided. It was a strange feeling, especially in his own home.

“I’d ask how you knew where I lived,” he started, running a hand through his hair, “but I doubt I’d really like the answer.” The contrast between their appearances - his casual and relaxed, and Mycroft’s straight-backed professionalism - was enough to make Greg wonder why changing into pyjamas was a good idea in the first place. Especially if he had to plan for attractive posh blokes randomly appearing at the door to his flat.

Mycroft looked just the slightest bit smug at Greg’s comment. If he was a bird, Greg would have thought to see him preen at the statement. “I hold a minor position in the British government,” he said. “Nothing important.”

Greg rose an eyebrow and took a half-step back, crossing his arms. He tilted his head, throwing a cocky smile at the slightly taller man. “I might not be a Holmes, but I do know that a ‘minor position’ wouldn’t come with posh black cars and assistants that look like super models that kidnap famous people off the street in the middle of the day.” A flash of confusion mixed with irritation was visible for a brief moment on Mycroft’s face.

Greg continued, his voice bland. “And neither would said minor official work random hours of the day.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed, tapping the umbrella gently against the hardwood floors that made up the majority of Greg’s flat. “My little brother never was good at keeping his mouth shut. Frightfully dangerous, sometimes, trusting him with secrets.”

“Makes me wonder what secrets he knows.” Greg padded farther into the flat, going to the kitchen. “Tea?” The British solution to everything.

“Please.” Mycroft walked over to the couch and picked up the outline Greg had been working on, reading over the notes. Greg stole a couple glances over his shoulder once he had poured the boiling water into the mugs and the tea leaves were steeping. It was nothing fancy, probably not up to Mycroft’s standards, but going through the motions was something Greg enjoyed. Even if he wasn’t really fond of tea. Picking up the mugs, he walked over to the table and plucked the notes out of Mycroft’s hands after setting the drinks on the table. Mycroft frowned, displeasure flickering across his face.

Although Mycroft was intimidating and wore power like others wore clothes, it didn’t bother Greg. For some reason, it was oddly easy to be casual around a man dressed to impress. Mycroft could intimidate everyone else with a single glance. Greg would give it right back. Well, most of it back. He bet there were several things that Mycroft could do that even as an extremely influential public figure, Greg could get nowhere near.

“You met with him today.” Mycroft sipped the tea from the mug, his sharp eyes focused intently on Greg’s face. It was a bit uncomfortable, all that deducing ability directed towards him. Sherlock always jumped from topic to topic, only tangentially connected by logic. It was overwhelming for most people. Even Greg and John, who could claim the most time spent tolerably in Sherlock’s company, still had trouble following some of the larger logic leaps he would make when he felt particularly inspired. That was, in the storytelling, when it fell to John to explain how Sherlock had come to conclusions that had originally left both of them baffled.

“Yes.” Greg sipped his own tea, staring pleasantly right back. Mycroft’s left eyebrow rose just a bit. It would have barely been discernible had Greg not been intently studying the man’s face for any shift in expression. For once, Greg was thankful for Sherlock. For all that they were different, the two Holmes brothers seemed to share various tells in their facial movements. Although Sherlock’s were vastly more aggravated and easier to spot, Greg had a good idea of where to look for facial movements relating to sarcasm and the ‘oh you peasant’ looks the Holmes brothers seem to have perfected.

Mycroft settled back in his chair, sipping the tea politely, not breaking eye contact. Greg refused to be intimidated and stared back, drinking his beverage. He doubted Mycroft had spent this much time in anyone’s company without them freaking out over something. He seemed to be one that inspired fear in normal people. His staff excluded, he amended, thinking of the brunette woman’s strange, disconnected behavior in the car

It was a casual, comfortable silence - at least on Greg’s part. While Greg hadn’t assumed that Mycroft would show up at his home, he had figured that the warehouse would not be the only time he would encounter the mysterious man. Mycroft didn’t seem the sort to give up on what he wanted, whether it was information or a person. Sherlock had never been someone for relationships, but he had sank his hooks into his blogger and refused to let him go. John rarely left the flat without Sherlock anymore (except on the constant grocery shopping trips that came along with having Sherlock as a flatmate). The man seemed to destroy anything in his vicinity with his experiments.

Greg took advantage of the silence to give Mycroft a closer look-over. Although the table still obscured parts of his body, Greg was able to discern a few more details that he hadn’t seen the last time he met. For one, Mycroft wore a wedding ring on the right finger, yet the wrong hand. Sentiment, Greg thought, likely a family member’s, probably a father’s, passed down to the eldest son. He was professionally dressed, yet the hands cupped around the tea were soft - no calluses. Dressed well, likely not done any hard, physical work in quite some time. The eyes were sharp - high intelligence. Greg snorted. Wouldn’t expect anything else from the eldest of the Holmes brothers.

Letting a slight smile tug at his lips, Greg shifted his body language, sinking back in the chair. He had picked up quite a bit from working so closely with Sherlock these past few years. “Not married, I see.” He took a sip of his tea, grimacing at the taste and how cold it was. “You seriously like this crap, though?” Mycroft’s eyes widened imperceptibly and Greg hid a grin. He doubted this conversation was going anywhere near where Mycroft originally planned it to. Although he did wonder why Mycroft was so quiet. He had had no difficulty talking during their encounter in the warehouse.

Getting up, Greg walked over to the counter and pulled out his espresso machine. He could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him. “Why are you here?” he asked conversationally, tapping down the coffee grounds before turning it on. Most of his focus was on the attractive man sitting at his table. The man who had, hours previously, commandeered a government car to pick him up while he walked to the park and shuffle him off to a random warehouse for a secret meeting. Most people would consider that stalking behavior. Thankfully, Gregory Lestrade was not most people.

Mycroft tilted his head so that he could look down his long nose at Greg. “To talk about Sherlock. The case your novel is based off of.” His posture had shifted just a bit, Greg noted. His guard was up, a reaction from Greg’s questioning and casual posture. Greg had disarmed him. Inordinately pleased with that, he let the espresso maker do its magic and turned around to face him, his eyes warm and a smile on his face.

“And that’s a problem how?” He shifted briefly to assemble his desired cup of coffee - just a bit of milk and a packet of sugar - before putting his hands around the sturdy mug and walking back to sit across from the politician, taking a sip as he did so. He exhaled slowly in pleasure. His father had taught him well.

“Classified information, I’m afraid.” Mycroft’s hands left the cup on the table to smooth down his suit lapels and Greg cocked an eyebrow. His hands seemed steadier when moving - a nervous habit, possibly. At this rate, Greg was going to have to buy Sherlock something as a gift in exchange for what’d he picked up listening to him. It was vastly less powerful than Sherlock’s all-knowing deductive skills, but it was something.

“Yet obviously not classified enough to be kept away from Sherlock,” Greg pointed out.

Mycroft looked like he had swallowed a sour lemon at the thought. “It is relatively difficult to keep anything away from Sherlock, Gregory.” Greg snorted in agreement, sipping more of his coffee. It had cooled to the perfect temperature. Warm enough to tolerate but still hot enough to burn a little on the way down. “Regardless, I should require any materials you have with confidential information on them.”

Greg smiled over his cup. “A ruddy useless precaution and you know it, Mycroft.” For a split second Greg could have sworn that there was shock muddled by irritation on Mycroft’s face. “I’ll just re-write the notes after you leave. Or just have Sherlock nick them.” The auburn-haired man’s eyes narrowed slightly and Greg merely stared back, his expression as innocent as could be. “I’ll modify it and you know it. Someone tipped you off - someone smart enough to put the pieces together, or someone who already knew the pieces. You don’t seem the type to read anything I write, nor your leggy assistant. Sherlock tipped you off somehow. Possibly without knowing it.”

Mycroft put the tea down and stood, his umbrella over his arm. “Impressive, Mr. Lestrade.”

“Oh, back to Mr. Lestrade, am I?” Greg stood in return. His smile was friendly. Disarming. So cheerful he feared he could cure cancer with it. Mycroft stared at him like he was a bug that had trundled off of his microscope and could-he-please-just-go-back-and-sit-there-and-stop-being-so-strange? It was a delightful, heady feeling, and Greg feared he was addicted already. He didn’t normally go for posh blokes, but the way Mycroft wore power like it was twined in his clothing was undeniably sexy.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, his hand now on the doorknob. “Gregory.” It was a threat and a warning at the same time. Greg grinned wider, all disarming and smiles. With a flourish of the umbrella, Mycroft was out his door. Greg went to the window and was startled to see his driveway completely empty, no paparazzi in sight. There was simply a black car idling at the curb. He watched as Mycroft got in the car and it drove off.

Turning away from the window, Greg picked up his legal pad and walked back to the couch. He flipped through the pages of his outline next to him, filling in points that he had not previously explored. It was going to be a long night. Not only did he have to finish the plot, but the addition of Mycroft Holmes had added some - not previously explored dimensions. Greg grinned. It was going to be an interesting outline and an even more interesting night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd here's chapter 2! We've got a date, some snogging, and angst and worry. Far less angst and worry than is normal for me, but don't worry - I'll right that ship eventually.
> 
> Thanks all for the kudos/comments/support on this. :) It really helps.
> 
> As usual, you can find me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for previews/ramblings/etc!

Greg rolled his eyes at the links Sally had sent him. The email had been short, a few links and a bunch of question marks. He knew it wouldn’t be long before she would be dropping by to find out the truth for herself. At least Mycroft had blocked the traffic, or the paparazzi might have gotten a closer look at the ‘mysterious visitor.’

‘Strange black car seen leaving the home of Greg Lestrade!’ ‘Popular actor turned author has mysterious visitor!’ Didn’t the paparazzi have anything better to do than to stalk who showed up at his house? He fought down a smirk when he noticed that there were no pictures attached to any of the articles mentioning a ‘visitor’. Either they had not been able to get some, even of the car, or Anthea had retrieved them. The brunette seemed capable of anything. Minor position in the British Government Greg’s pasty arse. He snorted.

Having sent a rough outline off to Sally the night before (rather proud of it despite working on it until 2am), Greg had some free time to burn. His phone buzzed and he glanced down in surprise. It was rare that he got a text. Sherlock texted him when he felt it was convenient and Sally when working, but it was too early for her to have read the outline and shoved it through its proper channels.

‘Did Mycroft come see you yesterday? JW’

‘Yes - why? GL’

‘He came here last night and he and Sherlock spent two hours glaring at each other and using their eyebrows to insult each other. I went and had tea with the landlady. JW’

‘Not sure the conversation went the way he wanted it to. GL’

‘Wanna get a pint? JW’

‘Sure. GL’

It was another few minutes before he had a time and place. Dressing quickly, he texted Sally to let her know he was headed out for a few hours and that if she had any comments to wait until he’d returned to the flat. It may take a while for the outline to go through the official channels but he was certain that Sally would have commentary to shoot his way before that. He drove quickly through the streets, glad his tinted windows gave him at least a small bit of privacy.

Part of his mind pondered what exactly had led John to seeking company outside of 221B Baker Street. Most of the reasons were tied to his flatmate Sherlock. Sometimes the flat smelled oddly, sometimes Sherlock was in one of his moods. Sometimes he had lit the flat on fire and John had to get away to avoid getting arrested for assault. Greg thought John a saint for putting up with the man at all and was always happy to go out for a round of drinks, no matter the time.

The small pub attached to the Diogenes Club was one of the few places Greg could go without being followed. Well, he would be followed, but with a wave and a smile to his stalkers, he disappeared through the well-guarded doors. John wouldn’t normally be allowed in such places, but through Sherlock he had connections. Sherlock could get pretty much anywhere he desired. Where he couldn’t get into, he stole authorisations from Mycroft.

Greg saw John sitting at a table, beer in front of him, and he smiled and headed over. John waved a hand in reply. “Just the two of us tonight, eh?” Sometimes Sherlock came and joined them if the flat smelled very badly. Or if it was in flames. Greg wasn’t always certain he could tell the difference between the two.

John rolled his eyes, faint amusement lurking in their depths. “Some fascinating experiment with fingers and something else that smells absolutely revolting is at its critical point and must not be neglected.”

“He’s certainly got an iron nose, doesn’t he,” Greg said, admiration tinging his voice for both of the men. How Sherlock didn’t chase John off was a mystery and a miracle. Why John didn’t run screaming was equally mysterious. John grinned at Greg as the silver-haired man got a drink, settling down at the table and taking a large gulp of of the alcohol. “Mycroft dropped by my flat yesterday, actually,” Greg added.

“Why?” John asked, his eyebrows raised. A waiter walked by, careful to stay just outside of the zone he could eavesdrop in, and Greg fought to hide a smile. He loved the privacy of anything to do with the Diogenes. It would mean the membership of any member to tattle on another and such absolute privacy was something he so rarely enjoyed outside of its walls.

“I was in my pyjamas.” Greg made a face and John laughed.

“Why?” John repeated, amusement plain in the wrinkles on his face.

“Yup. He showed up in his three-piece and all. I was outlining at the time.” Greg snorted at the mental image, his body hunching over and a hand on his forehead. “It was bloody surreal,” he added. “I think I threw him off a bit.” He ran the hand on his forehead absently through his hair, sitting back in his chair. “Posh bloke, he is. He and Sherlock don’t have much in common. I doubt he’s used to those he visits being in their pyjamas, of all things.”

John snorted. “They do not.” Another round of drinks arrived and John nodded his thanks, picking his up and sipping it briefly as Greg did the same. The comfortable silence between the two men stretched out just a bit further, Greg toying with his glass as he stared at it. “He kidnapped me, not long after Sherlock and I met,” John said finally, a funny smile on his face. Greg chuckled.

“I remember that, I think,” he said, crossing his legs as he settled back in his chair. “Dragged you off to that warehouse to offer to money to spy on Sherlock’s well being or something equally dramatic, right?”

John rolled his eyes. “Apparently I was the first to turn him down.” He picked up the glass and took a longer drink this time.

“Sally would’ve thought about it,” Greg said, loyally. “For at least a couple seconds.” John grinned at that. “Editors don’t get paid much.”

“That’s what people like you are for,” John teased.

Greg snorted, taking a long sip of his drink. The two continued chatting and reminiscing over various points of their friendship before the talk turned to sports. Finally they parted, Greg nearly sneaking into the hidden spot where he parked his car. Instead of going inside he walked past the complex into the park, a bag of stale bread clutched in his hands. The whole Mycroft debacle had unsettled him just a bit - although he’d never let the mysterious man know that much. He needed some time to settle things in his head and his heart before he was able to face Mycroft again with the same easiness he’d been wielding the last two times they had met.

The bread was for the numerous ducks and geese that inhabited the park. He knew they appreciated it, and in return he enjoyed the quiet that came with feeding them. “You look nice.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, unassuming, and Greg stifled a groan. Could he seriously not go one place without the posh bloke popping up like an unwhacked whack a mole? “I’ll leave, if you want,” he offered quietly. “I just wanted to apologize for my improper behavior earlier.”

“What improper behavior?” Greg looked over from the bench he was sitting on, crumbled bread in his hands and in the bag by his side. Mycroft stood a few feet to his left, watching Greg toss the crumbled bread and smile at the ducks and geese that intertwined between his legs.

“You come here often?” Mycroft asked, watching the practiced way in which Greg diverted the animals from the food supply.

“As often as I can,” Greg said. “Want some?” He offered the bag to Mycroft. Mycroft looked at him, briefly horrified. “They’re ducks, Mycroft. They’re not going to eat you. C’mere.” He patted the bench next to him and gestured Mycroft over, continuing until the extremely reluctant man settled down next to him. “Give me your hand.” Mycroft didn’t move, so Greg sighed, reaching over and gently tugging a clasped hand from Mycroft’s pocket. “Really, Mycroft? Geese? Cute little duckies?”

“They’re messy,” Mycroft muttered stiffly, his eyes downcast.

Greg grinned. For such an uptight, control-freak of a man, he had the oddest hang-ups. Who knew that a Holmes could be intimidated by adorable, honking featherbags? He sprinkled some bread crumbs into Mycroft’s hand, grasping his wrist lightly and making him toss them into the milling masses of ducks and geese. “See? Easy.” The grin Greg gave Mycroft was free and easy. Digging his free hand into the bag and pulling out another handful, he watched as the creatures eagerly attacked the scattered crumbs. This was his favorite part of the day, when he had the time. Nothing but him and the animals. He relaxed into the bench, letting them finish what he had dispersed.

Mycroft coughed next to him, and Greg looked over at him, curious. The taller man’s eyes were on the ducks and geese milling about his feet. Although Mycroft still looked somewhat mortified, Greg thought he had relaxed at least a little bit. Hopefully he wasn’t going to have a heart attack and die right in front of him. “I am hoping I could assuage the impact of my impropitious behavior by inviting you out for dinner.”

Greg stared at him for a few seconds. “Are you asking me out?” he asked. The tips of Mycroft’s ears slowly turned pink, and Greg’s grin got wider. “You are, aren’t you?”

Mycroft started to stand so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. “If it’s that unwelcome, I can leave,” he mumbled. Greg reached out and grabbed his arm, tugging him back down.

“I would love to go out to dinner to, oh - what was it - assuage the impact of your impropitious behavior,” Greg chuckled, grinning at him. “Don’t run away now, we have to figure out when and where.” He thought for a few seconds. “I’m a good cook. You could come over sometime. Stay the night if you’re so inclined, or dinner goes particularly nicely. Have dessert.” He winked. The tinge in Mycroft’s ears slowly started to spread farther down his face and neck. Greg had to refrain from bursting out into hysterical laughter. He tugged Mycroft forward and planted a gentle, chaste kiss on his lips. “Or not. God, you’re adorable.” Mycroft made a choking noise that was half embarrassment and half protest. Greg smirked. “No, but do come over. We can avoid the cameras that way.”

Mycroft frowned at him. Greg rolled his eyes. “At least have your assistant check the internet for you, okay? My stalkers are numerous and sneaky. You roll around in unmarked cars. I’m guessing the last place you’d want to be is front page of some trashy tabloid because some bloke with a camera caught us out to eat.” Not that Greg was certain it was much of a problem. Not after the roadblocks he’d seen last time.

“That’s a likely assumption,” Mycroft muttered. Greg smiled - except this smile held just a tinge of sadness. Shaking it away, he forced himself to relax. No use counting their relationship out before it began. Mycroft extended a hand in his direction, and Greg stared at it, realizing it held his phone.

“Oi, when’d you take that?” he asked, lifting it up and checking it for damage.

“I added my number.” Mycroft’s voice was almost shy, and Greg grinned.

“You could’ve just asked, you silly git,” he said, a happy lilt to his voice. “I suppose it’d be redundant to offer you mine?” Mycroft smirked and Greg rolled his eyes, although amusement was clear in his body language.

“Unfortunately, I have to go.” Mycroft’s voice was regretful as he checked a - and Greg was tickled to discover this - pocket watch in his breast pocket. “I will call you when I know when I can spare time for dinner.”

“Work calls?” Greg’s smile was mildly sympathetic. “Deadlines and all,” he agreed.

Mycroft smiled his thin smile. “Something like that.” He took a step away, then paused. “Do keep this to yourself, Gregory.” Greg’s stomach sunk low in his chest for a few brief seconds. Thankfully Mycroft wasn’t facing him. Was this really a good decision? Greg thrust the negative feelings towards the back - he couldn’t worry about those now. He and Mycroft could cross that bridge when it came to it. If they came to it.

“I’ll do my best,” Greg promised. He slipped out a hand and grasped Mycroft’s, squeezing it gently. He couldn’t do anything other than that - he had no control over the paparazzi and their cameras. The publicity he garnered had ruined several of his previous relationships. Was his and Mycroft’s over before it even began?

Mycroft turned around, apparently sensing Greg’s tension through his hands or something equally Holmes-like. He stepped towards Greg, his ice-blue eyes searching the other man’s face. “Did I offend you?” he asked quietly.

“There’s not much I can do about the paparazzi.” Greg’s voice was even and his chocolate eyes solemn instead of teasing. “As much as I’d love to say they won’t bother us, they’re merciless.” His eyes searched Mycroft’s for any shred of doubt. “That is something that is unavoidable with me.” He coughed. “When it comes to, um, dating me or, or being with me, or whatever you want to call it.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed just a bit as he searched Greg’s. “I’m sure I could handle a few paparazzi.” He reached down into his pocket and pulled out a mobile made of far more technology than Greg’s. He typed rapidly into it for a few seconds before dropping it back into his pocket. “You shouldn’t be bothered by anyone for at least a half hour. That should be enough time for you to get home safely - through your front door,” he added.

Greg stared at him for a few seconds. “What did you do?” he asked, both curious and mildly displeased at the same time. “Do I want to know?”

“Just set up a few temporary traffic blocks.” Mycroft’s mouth was twisted into a mulish line and Greg watched him for a few, long seconds before breaking out into a smile. It wasn’t worth arguing. He leaned forward and kissed Mycroft briefly, temptingly.

“See you later this week.” Greg smiled at Mycroft, a coy smile he’d been told worked well when he used it. Mycroft blushed and Greg laughed as the taller man walked away.

Adjusting his glasses and his clothes, Greg walked back towards his apartment, whistling. He snuck a glance backwards and saw Mycroft talking on his mobile, twirling his umbrella as he walked towards an unmarked black car lurking near the pavement. Greg grinned. Mycroft couldn’t stop working even for a few seconds. It was odd enough that Mycroft seemed to have paused long enough to converse with Greg. They made an odd pair, he thought. He forced his stomach to stop worrying - at this rate, it would give him an ulcer before he’d even been on a proper date with the man! He could worry about the paparazzi instead. It was time to Google some good recipes to use when Mycroft came over for dinner.

Maybe, if he was really good, the paparazzi would allow him enough of a break to do the shopping by himself. Greg snorted. He hated being popular. Absentmindedly, he wondered where Mycroft lived. If it was more secure than his place, maybe he could visit him there, sometime - then again, Greg already was used to defending against the paparazzi. How could people pay other people to stalk someone else? Didn’t they have families? Greg winced. Most of his family was dead. The last one alive was a brother he didn’t see very often. Wasn’t worth thinking about. Sally, John, and even - dare he say - Sherlock was as close to a family as he got now.

Greg snorted out loud as he walked. He truly was desperate if he was claiming Sherlock of anyone for family. Then again, he wondered, if he and Mycroft…Greg laughed. He couldn’t even begin to think that far ahead. Let’s make it to dinner, he thought. They could talk at dinner.

Stopping and staring as he made it within a stone’s throw of his flat, Greg finally understood what Mycroft must have done on his mobile that quickly. No one was allowed within five hundred yards of Greg’s front door due to “minor construction - you understand, of course.” Greg was quickly waved through without even a cursory glance at the ID he provided, assured that things would be alright and that there was no structural damage. Mildly dazed, he walked back up to his flat and went inside. What was he thinking, chasing after a man with that kind of power?

Shaking his head, he went straight to his laptop. Sally had sent back the outline with some comments. He downloaded it, printing it to review it so he could get started writing. Once that was completed, he set it aside and proceeded to spend two hours reading various dinner recipes. He was going to go all-out to impress Mycroft. He had the time (as long as he didn’t tell Sally, of course) - he might as well use it. He grinned. Mycroft was going to get the surprise of his life when he came over for dinner. Greg was going to make sure of that.

Making a shopping list, Greg sat it aside. He wasn’t sure when Mycroft would be able to come over, and some of the ingredients spoiled easily. He didn’t want to prepare too ahead of time. Pulling out his old-fashioned mobile, he flipped it open to discover that he had a text from Mycroft.

‘What about Thursday? MH’

‘Thursday is good. 7:30 work? GL’

‘Acceptable. MH’

Greg snorted. Only Mycroft would use the word “Acceptable” when it came to a dinner invitation. Greg thought about it for a second before laughing, this time out loud. Was there much that was typical when it came to a dinner invitation and Mycroft? He doubted many would venture to use the words strung together in a sentence. From the way Mycroft had reacted, Greg assumed that if he wasn’t the first, it wasn’t a very long list. Checking his calendar, he noted that Thursday was only two days away. He could most definitely get away with doing some shopping.

Thursday came sooner than Greg intended. The first draft of his novel was proceeding slowly, as usual. It always seemed slow at the beginning, but Greg knew the ebbs and flow of his writing style and there was no reason to be worried yet. Sally, however - Sally was practically frothing at the mouth. The outline had piqued her curiosity and she kept demanding that he finish it up now so she could read the whole thing, please-and-thank-you. Well, Greg amended. He made up the please and thank you. Sometimes he doubted she knew those words actually existed in the English language.

Earlier he had texted Mycroft the way to get into his flat through the back, where the paparazzi wouldn’t gather - or at least not as obviously. Mycroft had a better chance of getting through unnoticed there, and Greg didn’t exactly want the whole world to know about his dinner date. The sad thing was that it was likely, despite his best efforts, the world would indeed know that Gregory Lestrade had a dinner date with some individual tonight at 7:30pm.

He had spaced out his shopping, going at different times and gathering disjointed ingredients. The lengths he had to go to dissuade annoying stalkers was ridiculous at times, but it was worth it. It had to be. Greg put on oven gloves and turned the chicken around, closing the oven back up so it could finish cooking. He hadn’t done anything extravagant - he was a simple novelist - but an elegantly baked chicken dish was a family recipe he’d had passed down for three generations and never seemed to fail to impress when he needed it to.

Greg pondered absently as he prepared a salad to go along with it if chicken was suitable for Mycroft. Did he have any allergies? On the few occasions Sherlock had mentioned him, it had always been with a disdainful snort for some type of diet attempt. Greg had figured lean chicken with a salad, a nice wine, and a shaved dark rum and apple cider ice with honey for a garnish for dinner would be appropriate. He hoped. “Well, no use worrying about it now,” he chided himself, assembling the plates and other utensils onto the table.

“Worrying about what?” Mycroft asked. He had been standing and watching Gregory work for several long minutes, enjoying the way the silver-haired man moved about the kitchen with an effortless grace.

Greg smiled at the taller man in welcome. “Nothing.” He had forgotten that one could easily sneak into his house through that entrance without making any noise. Mycroft wouldn’t even let himself be heard walking if he could get away with it. Greg sauntered over, watching Mycroft glance down to his lips as he did so. He kissed Mycroft quickly before darting back over to the kitchen, his amusement increasing when he noticed Mycroft’s vague look of disappointment when Greg backed quickly away from him. “Can’t burn dinner, you know,” he explained.

“Indeed.” Mycroft watched Greg bustle about the kitchen. The silver-haired man was wearing a burgandy-coloured button-down top and trousers, well-worn brown shoes, and a wicked smile that made Mycroft look away and blush just a little. Greg laughed. Mycroft could be so different in two different contexts - there was this Mycroft, who blushed when Greg kissed him. And then there was the Mycroft who had approached him the first time - the ice man, all effortless death threats and razor-thin smiles. Greg quite liked the contrast and almost couldn’t decide which Mycroft he liked better. They were both interesting.

“You can look, I promise,” he chuckled, assembling the salad and adding a light vinaigrette. “I don’t bite.” Greg winked and noticed the colour deepen in Mycroft’s cheeks. “Unless you want me to, of course.” Greg bit back a laugh at Mycroft’s change in expression. He looked horrified and interested at the same time. Greg’s gaze swept up and down the politician appreciatively. Mycroft was dressed to impress tonight. His three-piece ensemble was immaculate, the light gray of his suit offset by the charcoal gray of his waistcoat and shoes. Greg watched him remove his jacket and hang it up on the hanger, revealing a starchily pressed white button-down. “You look nice.” Grinning, Greg put back on the oven gloves and pulled out the chicken, pleased with the results.

It was time to plate everything and Greg hummed to himself as he pulled out the shaved ice to check on it, stirring it carefully before placing it back in the freezer. He plated the chicken and the salad and served the wine, watching Mycroft watch him. Smiling at Mycroft, he gave everything one last look-over before sitting down across from the extremely careful man. “I think it’s ready,” he said.

They ate in a comfortable silence, Greg enjoying the chicken and the salad while Mycroft partook far more of the salad. Greg rolled his eyes but it was an amused, endearing look, not an exasperating one. Mycroft asked Greg several pointed questions about the novel he was working on and the original cases. Greg answered, knowing that Mycroft must have looked up the case files Sherlock had been involved in. He lobbed back questions about Mycroft’s childhood. Some he answered - including a particularly endearing childhood story about Sherlock, bumblebees, and a jar of honey - and some he parried into questions about Greg’s own childhood.

Greg washed and Mycroft dried, the companionable silence continuing as the two cleaned up after the rather lavish dinner. He had excused himself briefly to do another security check of the apartment, double-checking that all windows were covered and any other avenue into the apartment had some kind of security on it. Mycroft had watched him do so, and Greg could’ve sworn he was faintly amused. “Anthea’s watching it all,” he assured Greg. Greg grimaced.

Anthea was Anthea, but she was only one person, and the paparazzi could be damn stubborn when the urge took them. Although it was known that Greg was bisexual, most of his past lovers had desired some amount of secrecy. Greg could rarely offer that. Damn if he was going to lose Mycroft because of it without a fight. “Gregory?” Mycroft asked, catching Greg’s rather wistful expression.

“Nothing, Mycroft,” he said, smiling absentmindedly in his direction. “Did we finish the kitchen?” Mycroft frowned at him. Greg shifted mindsets forcibly. The relationship wasn’t going to start if he couldn’t keep his mind in the game, and with Mycroft being Mycroft, he deserved Greg’s full attention. While most of the posh blokes Greg had dated were wild in bed, he doubted that Mycroft was nearly as adventurous. It was far more likely, he assumed, that Greg was the first man that had kissed him, much less suggested anything further. That meant that Greg needed to keep his head in the game to avoid scaring off or scarring the slightly younger man.

Greg looked over his kitchen, his mind still half-distracted. Mycroft stood there, watching him, mostly curious. “C’mere,” he said, gesturing for Mycroft to come over. Mycroft slowly walked over to him, the expression on his face torn between curiosity and the slightest hint of fear. Greg smiled softly, remembering the familiar trepidation that came when kissing anyone new. How did they like it? Soft and gentle? Hard and raw? Mycroft’s anticipation was borderline driving Greg crazy.

He slipped an arm around Mycroft’s waist and drew him close, capturing Mycroft’s mouth with his own, soft and insistent. Mycroft’s gasp parted his lips and Greg allowed his tongue to drift through, touching Mycroft’s lips before reaching into Mycroft’s mouth, gentle. Pausing to nibble on Mycroft’s lower lip, Greg hummed against Mycroft’s mouth, his hand to sneaking up and gently stroking the back of Mycroft’s neck. A dark flush was gathering on Mycroft’s cheeks at this point and Greg grinned, nibbling slowly on Mycroft’s lips and delighting in the small moan that it elicited.

“Mm, you’re a quiet one,” Greg murmured. He drew back briefly, ignoring Mycroft’s frown and kissed the side of Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft stilled under his touch, and Greg smirked. Slowly trailing kisses along Mycroft’s jaw, he gently planted one under Mycroft’s ear, nibbling at the earlobe gently. “Sensitive, are we?” he breathed, licking at the skin as Mycroft shivered under the touch.

Kissing his way back down Mycroft’s jaw, he tongued the hollow of Mycroft’s throat, where his pulse throbbed. Mycroft stifled a groan, and Greg flicked his eyes up. Mycroft was staring at him, his pupils dilating, looking scandalized and aroused at the same time.

Greg sealed their lips together again, unable to stand Mycroft’s hungry stare. Mycroft parted his lips, more eagerly this time, and Greg’s tongue delved between them, lapping briefly at Mycroft’s teeth before he slowly, teasingly explored Mycroft’s mouth. He could feel the other man melt against him. Concerned for his ability to stand, he broke the kiss apart and dragged Mycroft over to the couch, sitting him down. Mycroft stared skeptically at him for a few seconds before Greg crawled into his lap, his lips immediately back on Mycroft’s with as short of a break as he could manage.

Greg didn’t break the kiss as he reached back to grab Mycroft’s fluttering hands, placing them on his ribs instead of the more ticklish spots of his sides. Mycroft’s hands flexed briefly before settling, thumbs occasionally brushing across Greg’s ribs. The growing erection Greg could feel certainly answered a few questions about Mycroft Holmes’ sexuality - he had one, for starters. Pausing, Greg pulled back, staring into Mycroft’s flushed face for a few seconds. Mycroft stared back evenly, if a bit confused as to why Greg was staring at him so.

There was a knock at the door and Greg couldn’t hide the tension that froze his body. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly and Greg cursed inwardly, getting up and walking over. He hoped whoever it was didn’t want anything, because it would be hard to hide his erection at the moment. Glancing through the peephole, he immediately opened the door a crack when he saw it was Anthea. He cracked the door just enough for her to shove a bag through. “Seven fifteen AM, sir.” With that, she was gone. Greg took the bag, looking at it curiously. One of Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted the slightest amount - his amusement, Greg assumed - before he walked over to take it from him.

“My overnight bag,” he explained. Greg grinned slowly. Although he doubt he would get as far as he wanted, at the very least they could snog in a proper bed instead of on the couch. Greg’s back would thank him in the morning - it had already spent months whining over the way he spent hours hunched over various objects when writing. “I shall go change into proper attire.” Taking the bag, Mycroft walked into Greg’s bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Greg scratched his head, somewhat amused. So it was going to be this way, was it?

While he hadn’t expected Mycroft to go all the way, he hadn’t expected the man to have hangups about nudity. It was a long time since he had dated someone who was shy about their body. Greg tilted his head slightly, regarding the door to the bathroom with a thoughtful expression. It was a different challenge, in a way. He didn’t want to overwhelm Mycroft, because that could easily lead to Mycroft getting in over his head and ending up in a situation that he regretted - but he wasn’t against giving Mycroft reasons to not be shy.

He waited until Mycroft had returned from the bathroom before walking into his bedroom and changing into his comfortable, tattered pyjamas. He could feel Mycroft craning to watch. “You can watch if you want,” he said, noticing that Mycroft appeared at the door, his eyes on Greg’s bare chest as Greg changed into comfortable boxers under his loose plaid pyjama pants. Mycroft frowned slightly as Greg pulled on a shirt. Greg looked pointedly at Mycroft’s silk pyjamas. The pants were long enough to cover most of the tops of his feet, and the sleeves went down to carefully folded cuffs at his wrists. Mycroft shrugged. Greg walked over and tugged at his arm, pulling him close enough to plant a kiss on his lips.

“You’re adorable,” he told Mycroft, running a hand through Mycroft’s auburn hair. Mycroft looked quizzically at him, his eyebrows raised. Greg shrugged, planting a kiss on Mycroft’s nose as he tugged him towards the bed. Mycroft stared hesitantly at Greg and then at the bed.

“It is quite possible for me to acquire rest on the couch,” Mycroft started, pausing when Greg shook his head.

“That’ll wreck havoc on your back,” Greg informed him. He linked his fingers with Mycroft’s and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s long nose. “We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Greg encouraged. Mycroft nodded slightly and sat down, staring at Greg, his gaze moving between his lips and his eyes. Greg smirked and sauntered over, his pants hung low on his hips. “You just have to ask, you know.” Greg kissed him and pushed him back farther onto the bed, the snogging slow and languid, gentle and warm. They had time - he was in no hurry.

Wrapping a solid arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, he shifted so that the auburn-haired man was on top of him. That would allow Mycroft some control, and allow him to see how being that close to Greg could be used in so many different ways. Slowly, he thought. Slowly. They snogged for some time longer, lazy and blissful. There were numerous advantages to taking it slow. It allowed him to see what Mycroft liked - how he liked to be kissed, how he liked it when Greg stroked a hand through his hair. Mycroft even was brave enough to slip a hand under Greg’s shirt. Greg moaned encouragingly, and felt Mycroft’s hand begin a tentative exploration, mapping the contours of Greg’s chest.

Finally the lazy snogging subsided into something less physical, brief kisses exchanged as the two wrapped their arms around each other, body against body. It was unusual for Greg to get so close so quickly; the cuddling was nearly more intimate than casual sex. Mycroft was a special case, however. Greg ended up against Mycroft’s stomach, the taller man’s lips nuzzling Greg’s bared neck sleepily. Mycroft draped an arm over Greg’s middle, pulling him closer. Greg chuckled, slipping his arm close to Mycroft’s and scooting as close to the other man as he could get. “G’night, Mycroft,” he murmured, allowing himself to slip into sleepy oblivion.

-

Greg hummed and forced his eyes open, blinking wearily when he realized it was still dark. Levering himself up on his elbow, he looked over at Mycroft, trying to figure out what had woken him up from such a sound sleep. What he saw was concerning enough for his mind to thrust itself out of its sleepiness and wake up completely. The man was twitching spasmodically, whimpering, thrashing in small movements - if Greg had not heard from John what Sherlock’s bad nights were like he might not have recognised it for what it was.

As it was, it took Greg a few seconds to jump from thinking seizure to realizing what was actually happening. Mycroft was having a nightmare. Greg frowned slightly, concerned. Only a Holmes could be so damned self-contained when having one. A thin sheen of sweat was decorating Mycroft’s forehead, and he was convulsively grasping at the sheets surrounding him, slight movements of the pale fingers tightening in the duvet. Unknowingly Greg must have rolled over in his sleep - he wasn’t used to sleeping with someone else in his bed - and left Mycroft alone.

“Mycroft?” Greg tentatively flipped on the light, afraid to touch the man in the throes of his nightmare. He knew with some people, like John, touching them when they weren’t awake could be as dangerous as letting the nightmare run its course. Mycroft was whimpering now, his expression contorting so painfully Greg couldn’t let it continue. He reached out and gently shook Mycroft by the shoulder. “Mycroft, wake up.” Two things happened so quickly that Greg could barely follow - which was forgivable. He saw Mycroft’s eyes snap open the moment Greg touched his shoulder and less than a second later Mycroft had Greg pinned underneath him on his stomach, his arm painfully pulled behind his back.

It was another few seconds Greg laid there, letting Mycroft fight to get himself back under control. Not long after, Mycroft let go of Greg and had apparently backed away. Greg righted himself, flexing his arm briefly to make sure no harm had been done. He looked over at Mycroft and winced. Mycroft was staring at him, self-hated flashing across his features. The moment Greg looked at him Mycroft looked anywhere but his face. The ceiling, the wall, the previously comfortable bed - anything was better than Greg’s face.

“I should leave.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet and almost stabbed Greg in the heart when he heard it. It was so small, so full of self-loathing and Greg just wanted to wrap him in his arms and hug him and not let go until he stopped being so silly.

Greg frowned at him. “Why? For one, it’s 4am.”

“Anthea would be awake. I could text her.” Mycroft’s hand started edging towards his mobile, almost reluctant in its journey. Greg reached out and snatched the phone from within his grasp, pulling open his bedside drawer and tossing it in there.

“No need to disturb her sleep,” he chided. Mycroft stared mutinously at Greg’s knees, as if they had the answer to what had just happened.

“She’s not sleeping.” Mycroft’s gaze wandered now, back towards the bed, towards the window, still studiously avoiding Greg’s face. Greg tsk-tsked.

“While I can imagine she’s not, that’s still no reason to flee.” Slowly he scooted towards where Mycroft was sitting, halting after several centimetres when he noted that Mycroft was tensing up again.

“I hurt you,” Mycroft muttered finally. “I assaulted you, rather.” He twisted his face in an expression of derision - towards himself, Greg figured.

“So?” Greg asked. He made a point of stretching his previously bent arm, demonstrating its full range of function and non-injured-ness. Mycroft watched the motion skeptically. “You were having a nightmare, Mycroft. It’s a normal human reaction - no, don’t you roll your eyes at me.” Greg frowned at him, watching Mycroft stop mid eye roll. “Come back here. I want to hug you and make sure you’re okay.” It was like coaxing a wild animal. Mycroft wanted to come closer - wanted to be closer to Greg - but he was afraid that there was some human thing he was missing, where Greg being kind secretly meant that Mycroft was about to be drawn and quartered. Greg gave him his best you-are-being-ridiculous expression, a hand out, flicking his fingers in his direction.

Greg could see the wheels turning in Mycroft’s expression, same as he could see when Mycroft finally stopped thinking and allowed himself to scoot towards Greg.

“That’s right,” he encouraged. Mycroft raised an eyebrow scathingly and Greg grinned.

“I’m not a puppy, Gregory,” he muttered.

“Of course not,” Greg said, winking as Mycroft got close enough that Greg could grab a wrist and pull him close. “I wouldn’t do this to a puppy, for one.” He settled Mycroft against himself and kissed him enthusiastically until he felt some of the tension finally leave Mycroft’s body. Satisfied, he shifted them until they were spooning again, this time cradling Mycroft against himself. “Couple more hours of sleep,” he murmured.

Mycroft was quiet for a while, listening to Greg’s steady breathing. He felt fingers tweak his ear, and he scowled. “Gregory.”

“You’re so tense,” Greg said, nuzzling the back of Mycroft’s neck with his parted lips.

“Habit,” Mycroft admitted quietly.

“Not used to sleeping with someone?” Greg lifted his head and balanced it on his hand, his elbow crooked. Mycroft shook his head. “Well, I am honoured,” he said, grinning. He felt Mycroft roll his eyes before closing them. Greg nestled his head down against Mycroft’s, letting the auburn-haired man’s steady breathing lull him to sleep. They could relax and be together for a few more hours, at least, before Mycroft’s insane schedule separated them for who knows how long.

Before Greg knew it Mycroft was shaking him awake. He stared blearily up at Mycroft, frowning at him. “That time already?” he asked, his voice sandpaper rough.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, apologetic. He was already dressed in one of his suits. It wasn’t one Greg recognized - probably from his overnight bag. Mycroft stood, staring at Greg, who was staring back. Greg crooked a finger at him. Mycroft scooted closer obediently, allowing Greg to grab his tie and pull him down for a languid kiss.

They parted after several seconds, Mycroft slightly more wide-eyed and disheveled than he had been moments prior. “You don’t have to ask, you know,” Greg murmured against Mycroft’s lips. He kissed Mycroft a few more times, lazy lips against lazy lips. “I’m not going to bite you if you kiss me.” Mycroft blinked a few times, shifting back from Greg to adjust his slightly rumpled suit. Greg smirked, rolling over so that he could still lay and see Mycroft at the same time. “Anthea picking you up?” he asked. Mycroft nodded.

“Get some more sleep, Gregory.” Leaning forward, Mycroft kissed Greg’s forehead gently before picking up his bag and heading out the door. Greg listened for the front door to close before he got up and walked to the door, watching through the peephole as Mycroft silently got into the black car waiting mere steps from his front door. Again the road blocks. Sooner or later the paps were going to figure it out and find a way around it. It would take a while, if they were lucky.

Greg locked his front door and went back to bed. If they were lucky. He sighed, curling up in the middle of the plush bed that had been so comfortable minutes before. He was never lucky.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg clicked away from the article he had skimmed, somewhat disgusted. Why anyone felt the need to speculate on his sex life was beyond him. He couldn’t shake the faint edge of worry he felt, too. It’d been a week since he’d seen Mycroft, and four days since Sally had sent him the link to the article that had blown up on his fan page. He rolled his eyes. If there was anything he hated, it was publicity. Yet publicity seemed to cling to him no matter what he did.

He pulled out his mobile, staring at it for a few seconds before he set it back on the table next to his laptop. He’d been writing on and off all morning. This was the hardest part about being a writer - writing to a deadline. There were advantages to his chosen profession, though - he could wrote more some days and less others. Being able to control his schedule allowed him more freedom in when he could meet up with Mycroft. Allowed him to have more time for dates if he felt like it. However, if the person he wanted to date was halfway across the world - well, that did put a damper in Greg’s plans.

‘Where are you? Any chance of dinner tonight? GL’

‘Unfortunately not. My apologies, Gregory. Little bit of a situation, nothing to worry about. I should be in town tomorrow. MH’

Greg sighed and flipped his phone closed. At least it was tomorrow instead of next week. He got a bit lonely sometimes. It was almost enough to make him consider going back to acting. Almost. The schedule was hectic, the travel even more so, but Greg loved it. The downside was the publicity. Although it was bad as a novelist, it was scads better than it had been when he was an actor. He opened his phone again. ‘Text me when you can drop by? I’ll cook again. GL’

Apparently that wasn’t the plan. Greg was typing away the next day, completely absorbed by what he was doing. He nearly fell off of his chair when his phone rang. “Hello?”

“Gregory, it is nice to hear your voice,” Mycroft said smoothly. “I am inviting you out for an evening in which we shall partake at a small local restaurant - it is discreet enough for our tastes, I assure you, so you need not worry about being recognised.”

“I - what?” Greg said dumbly.

“Seven PM, Gregory,” Mycroft said, amusement in his voice. Then the line went silent.

Being able to lounge about in one’s pyjamas was one of Greg’s favorite parts of being a writer. Although they weren't exactly pyjamas, he justified. They were outlining clothes. Or writing clothes. Something of the sort. There were disadvantages to maintaining such a wardrobe, however. Such as when one’s posh boyfriend invited one out to a probably posh sort of club. Then it caused a bit of a panic in terms of wardrobe choices. Thankfully, Sally had dragged Greg out shopping one time to make sure he got a bunch of nice suits for publicity tours. Going over his choices, he settled on a steel gray suit that he thought accentuated his body rather flatteringly.

Sunglasses looked rather ridiculous with a suit, although he wore them anyways. A hat, pulled low over his forehead, completed his rather odd-looking ensemble. As long as it got him to Mycroft’s secret club without being recognized, he didn't care. He pulled out his phone.

‘Meet me at the back entrance. GL’  
‘Or the park. GL’  
‘Or wherever, really. GL’

He was nervous, and he wasn’t sure why. Figuring a walk would do him some good, he snuck out of his house the back way, ensuring that there was no one following him. Sighing in relief, he strode towards the park, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets. He was likely an odd sight, walking in the evening by himself in a suit jacket and freshly pressed trousers, but he didn't really care. Smiling as the park came into view, he made for his favorite part, a bridge. It was not far from where he had ran into Mycroft the last time, before the dinner invitation. He grinned at the thought.

He leaned over the railing, watching the fish swim by underneath. A slight smile danced on his lips at the tranquility - it was quiet and peaceful. He ran a hand through his silvering hair, his face solemn despite the languid atmosphere. It would be tonight. It was imperative to have that talk with him, imperative to let Mycroft know what he was getting into if he wanted to have a relationship with Greg.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was quiet. Greg smiled, turning away from the railing towards the auburn-haired man who was looking quizzically at him.

“Ready to go?” he asked, walking over to him.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, blinking slightly. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” Greg mimicked Mycroft, winking. “I’m quite fine. Where are we going to dinner?” He slipped his arm through Mycroft’s, linking them as they walked to where Anthea was waiting in the car. “Hullo, Anthea,” Greg said conversationally. She nodded his direction, her attention on Mycroft. Some more secret eyebrow conversation ensued and Greg watched. Someday he would learn the ancient Holmesian art of the magical eyebrow conversation. Either that, or he’d make Mycroft translate. The car slid effortlessly into gear.

Greg sat comfortably next to Mycroft, watching out the window as various buildings slipped by. He took in some of the scenery as well. Mycroft must have sensed his curiosity, for he would rattle off names, dates, and any sort of event that may have happened at the place that he thought Greg might find interesting. He was like a walking encyclopedia, something Greg thoroughly enjoyed.

The car slid to a stop in front of a fancy-looking restaurant. Greg paused, looking around, attempting to get his bearings. Realizing they weren’t too far from the Diogenes, he took off his glasses and his hat and left them in the car. Mycroft looked at him, and Greg shrugged. “Publicity’s a bitch,” he said. “I have enough trouble trying to go places without the press finding me. This place seems like it’s close to the Diogenes, though, and the press rarely go there. I think I’m safe.” Mycroft nodded and pressed forward, Greg by his side.

Greg listened, amused, as Mycroft conversed briefly with the waiter in French and they were sat at a small, private table in the back. It was set so that both men could see all of the patrons, but the patrons were unable to see either of them. Greg grinned at Mycroft, who smiled thinly in return. Picking up the menu, Greg raised his eyebrows. This wasn’t something he’d anticipated. “It’s in French,” he said pointedly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow expectantly. “You spent quite a bit of time in France.”

“Going through my travel records, were we?” Greg asked, browsing through the menu. Mycroft smiled noncommittally, watching Greg carefully for a reaction. “While yes, I did, I also don’t remember much of the language, and I certainly wasn’t served fare like this.” He smiled at Mycroft, inviting him to share his amusement. “Oh c’mon, Mycroft, it’s funny.”

Mycroft carefully dusted off his lapels. “I don’t know about funny, Gregory,” he started, “But if you tell me what you like, I can certainly order for you.” He paused again. “If that’s alright, of course.” Greg cocked his head to the side, charmed.

“Of course. Order me whatever you think I might like.” He set aside the menu, watching Mycroft now. “No, it’s not a test, Mycroft. I promise.” Mycroft made a face at him, then sat the menu down. The waiter came over and Mycroft ordered in fluent French without even glancing at the menu. Greg could barely stifle a chuckle.

“How was work?” Greg asked conversationally, absently playing with one of the many sets of silverware decorating the various napkins. How someone was supposed to use it all in one meal, he had no idea.

“The usual,” Mycroft said. “Hardly worth the trouble I spent on it.” He smiled slightly, just a slight lift of the corner of his lips. It was endearing and made Greg want to kiss him. Refraining - they were in public, after all - he took a moment to look over the other patrons. He recognized a handful of them. Other wealthy figures, some actors, some actresses, some attempting to drop out of the spotlight like himself. It was a difficult, almost impossible task. Greg envied those who had managed it.

Their food came before too long, and Greg grinned. Mycroft had ordered him some fancy chicken dish and it looked delicious. The politician had something Greg couldn’t even identify, but from the way he dug into it, Greg made note to find out so he could make it in the future. “We should talk,” Greg said between bites. He watched, mildly amused, as Mycroft froze with a bite halfway to his mouth. “Nothing like that, Mycroft.”

If Mycroft had been less dignified, Greg figured he would’ve stuck his tongue out at him. But he wasn’t. So Greg did it for him. Mycroft eyed him carefully, and Greg chuckled. “Did I do something wrong, Gregory?”

“Of course not,” Greg said, waving about the whole restaurant. “This whole thing is fantastic, actually. But I know you like to be all secret. That’s hard with me.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I’m stalked by paparazzi nearly twenty four seven. I’m not sure how you’ve managed all the traffic blocks and all, but eventually the paps are going to figure out that something’s going on. It’s kind of conspicuous.”

“What traffic blocks?” Mycroft blinked slightly, but his expression was just a bit too innocent. Greg hid a smile.

“Oh, I know you know what I’m talking about. It’s only a matter of time before they catch a picture of you, no matter how secretive you’re being.” Greg said, flipping a fork around on the table. It was a nervous habit, to play with anything he got his hands on, especially when he was having this kind of conversation.

“A picture?” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Of me?”

“Yes.” Greg’s chocolate brown eyes met Mycroft’s ice-blue ones, serious. “Do you think they’d be able to identify you?”

“I’m not in any databases,” Mycroft mused. “Why do they want pictures of me, anyways? You’re much more handsome.”

“Thanks for that,” Greg said, winking at Mycroft, who seemed startled by the words that had emerged from his mouth. “They want pictures of you because you’re tied to me somehow, and some people on the internet won’t stop until they have every detail of my personal life. Why, I have no idea.” He shrugged. “And you’re quite handsome too.”

Mycroft waved a hand in the air, and Greg could see metaphorical cogs turning in that big brain of his. It was oddly striking and Greg hid a grin under his hand. “I’ll have Anthea check the internet, and do some damage control,” he said finally, his mobile already in his hand. Texting rapidly, Mycroft closed his eyes briefly before setting the phone to the side of their mostly empty plates.

Greg watched him in silence. He wasn’t sure what to think - was Mycroft willing to take the chance? Was Greg worth it? The other man’s face was so closed off that he wasn’t sure what he was thinking. This was Serious Mycroft - the one who ran a whole government from his brain and his tiny mobile phone. This wasn’t the shy, adorable man that Greg had had in his bed. This was the one who would weigh the pros and the cons and do whatever was logically prudent. The thought terrified Greg.

He knew, deep down, that he was not the logical choice. The logical choice, for Mycroft, would have been to get the hell away from such a blatant security risk. A popular, paparazzi-stalked novelist was about as far away from a proper mate as you could get. Super serious government types didn’t get involved with security risks like him. However, Mycroft had. Greg focused intently on his fork, ignoring the hair that prickled on the back of his neck. Mycroft was watching him.

Greg felt a hand on the back of his neck. “Hey - mphf!” His protest was silenced by Mycroft’s lips as the other man kissed him. It wasn’t a quick kiss, nor was it particularly passionate, but he lingered, and Greg could feel Mycroft’s hand twine in his hair. Slowly, reluctantly the fingers removed themselves and Mycroft settled back. He was embarrassed - public displays of affection were very unlikely to be something Mycroft ever thought of doing often - but he was watching Greg in a sort of anxious way that Greg found adorable. He was so screwed if Mycroft decided it wasn’t worth it later.

“What was that for?” Greg asked, a bit breathless. Mycroft adjusted his napkin, prim and proper. Yet Greg could see the faint blush decorating his cheeks from the kiss, and Greg tilted his head, cheeky.

“You were having doubts,” Mycroft said simply. His eyes were solemn, and they bored into Greg’s like an anvil. “Don’t.” He said the words like they were so simple. They were a balm to Greg’s soul, in a way - it was what he needed to hear, and he was thankful for that. Greg smiled at Mycroft, who frowned, just a bit. “I don’t know if that was socially acceptable…” he trailed off as Greg shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he assured Mycroft. “I’d thank you properly, but we’re in public, and I doubt you’d appreciate it.” Greg took the last bite of his chicken, allowing the fork to linger against his tongue. Not surprisingly, Mycroft stared at the contrast of steel-gray silverware and light pink tongue. Greg smirked. “See something you like?” Mycroft gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his pale throat.

“Can we…” Mycroft trailed off uncertainly. “You could come to my place tonight.”

Greg chuckled, leaning forwards. Mycroft blushed, just a bit, as Greg got closer to him. “There a reason for that?”

Mycroft’s face flickered, just for a second. “There’s more security, and it’s less likely that someone will be watching you there.” He met Greg’s chocolate eyes with his blue ones. Greg leaned back in his chair now, watching Mycroft curiously.

“Well, that is some good logic,” he admitted. “Your place it is.”

“Anthea will take you home in the morning.” Mycroft paused. “I already have some pyjamas for you at my place.” Greg raised his eyebrows and Mycroft’s gaze stuttered down to the napkins. “It was a simple matter of noting the circumference and matching them up with…” he trailed off, too embarrassed to finish.

“Mycroftian for ‘Been checking you out’,” Greg teased. “I’ll take it.” Mycroft’s cheeks got redder and Greg laughed. Leaning forward, he pressed a brief kiss to Mycroft’s mouth. “Lead on, then.”

Cheeks red, Mycroft stood up and grabbed Greg’s hands, twining the fingers together as the men walked out of the restaurant and swiftly into the waiting black car. “There was no one there,” Mycroft assured Greg, squeezing his hands reassuringly. “My security team performed a sweep.”

“Did you check the bushes?” Greg asked. “They’re pretty sneaky - mmph!” Mycroft had figured out pretty quickly how to shut Greg up, shifting so that he was straddling the author and covering Greg’s mouth with his own. It was a somewhat awkward position but Greg shifted quickly, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s hips and tilting his head. Mycroft gasped slightly and Greg took advantage of his parted lips, slipping his tongue in easily to explore Mycroft’s mouth. He took a few moments to nibble on Mycroft’s bottom lip, enjoying the other man’s reaction. Mycroft’s face continued to heat up and he grasped the sides of Greg’s jacket, searching for somewhere to place his hands.

“Ahem,” Anthea’s voice interrupted. The car had stopped and neither of them had noticed. Greg merely threw a smirk in her direction while Mycroft brushed down his suit in an attempt to look composed, the blush high and long-lasting on his cheeks. “Sir,” she said, nodding to Mycroft as he exited the car. Greg noted with mild interest that no matter Mycroft’s composure, he couldn’t exactly hide the bulge in his well-fitting trousers.

“Anthea,” he said in response, nodding to her as he pulled Gregory out of the car. Glancing carefully about him, he walked up the narrow walkway and into the building. “Hit the three,” he told Greg, still trying to fuss with his suit.

“Three what?” Greg asked, his hand poised over the button.

“No three what,” Mycroft said, still distracted. “Three. The third floor’s mine.”

“Oh,” Greg said, as if that explained everything. Of course Mycroft would own an entire floor. He couldn’t settle for half of a floor, like Greg did. The thought amused him. What would Greg do with an entire floor? He barely had enough to fill the half of the floor that he did live in. Realizing he still hadn’t hit the button for the lift, he pushed it with his finger. They walked in once the doors open, and Greg jolted when the lift started to lift up. Mycroft had his mobile out and was texting rapidly, a slight frown on his face. “Emergency somewhere?” Greg asked conversationally. Mycroft murmured something noncommittally, walking forward to slot a key into the lock and push open the door to his flat.

Greg stood and stared for a few long seconds. It was probably the most interesting flat Greg had ever remembered seeing. Not that he could see much of it from where they were standing - there was a small living space and then a single hallway leading farther into what had to be the rest of the flat. There were a few paintings - mostly fruit, Greg noted with interest. Small bookshelves lined the tiny living area, the trim was a dark cherry with the wood stained dark brown. “I have to make a phone call, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was apologetic and tense at the same time. “If you would follow me…” Obediently Greg trailed after him, stopping when Mycroft did in front of a dark door. There’s an entertainment center through this doorway. Please, feel free to do whatever you wish.” He turned his back towards Greg and walked through another door.

Well, that was a new development, Greg thought. He walked down a small set of stairs, stopping when he hit the bottom. There was a massive TV decorating one of the walls of Mycroft’s entertainment center, surrounded by stereo speakers. He stared. Never would he have imagined Mycroft having such a large TV, nor an entertainment system at all. Wandering over to the small collection of DVDs, he stopped and stared again. Hidden at the bottom was a collection of not only the show he was most known for, but of all the movies and shows that Greg had been in, dating back to the beginning of his acting career. Greg blinked a few times before choosing an older show that he didn’t recognize.

After fiddling with the knobs, he got the DVD playing. It was an old American comedian, and he recognised the name, although not the style. He made himself comfortable on the plush couch, occasionally laughing at the antics or the jokes on the telly when the show called for it. Eventually the sound of the show faded to the background as his thoughts rose to the surface, and he couldn’t help a snort. Here he was, sitting in Mycroft’s flat - the British Government’s flat - watching a comedy show while Queen and Country apparently had an urgent situation that Mycroft was tackling via his mobile.

Eventually everything faded and it wasn’t until Mycroft’s voice cut through Greg’s sleep-fogged mind that he realized he must have fallen asleep. “Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was deeply apologetic, and the author stretched lazily on the couch. Rubbing one of his eyes, he searched for a clock - how long had he been down there? “My apologies - I didn’t expect that call to take so long.” A brief pause. “You’ve been asleep about an hour, give or take.”

“Mm, Mycroft.” Greg stretched on the couch again, enjoying the loose feelings in his limbs as he forced his mind back awake. The DVD was still going and he focused on it briefly. “You like this stuff?” He jerked his thumb towards the TV, his eyes turning back to the politician, curious.

“Yes, I do.” Greg could hear Mycroft’s smile in his voice. It wasn’t much, just a bit of a lilt, but it was enough to prompt a smile in return. Greg gestured Mycroft to come closer, reaching up with an arm to drag Mycroft down to where Greg could capture his lips for a kiss.

When they parted, Mycroft’s cheeks were just a bit pink and Greg was more awake. Or parts of him were, anyways. He shifted uncomfortably, aware of his cock twitching in his trousers. “We can go back upstairs, if you want,” Mycroft murmured against his lips, brushing them together in a motion that sent shivers down Greg’s spine.

Greg kissed him briefly, lingering for a few moments. “I want to see where you sleep,” he said, his voice low and throaty.

“I doubt it’s going to be quite up to your imaginings, Gregory,” Mycroft admonished, the flush spreading down to his neck. He had removed his suit jacket and waistcoat, leaving him in a button-down top, the cuff links still in the cuffs. Leading Gregory back up the stairs, he gave him a quick tour, pointing out the kitchen and the bathroom as they made their way through a small maze of hallways.

“You don’t make it easy to get to your bedroom, do you?” Greg asked conversationally, amused at the same time.

“Have to dissuade assassins and the like,” Mycroft said casually. He reached out and gently took Greg’s hand, leading him as they walked. Greg stared at him for a few seconds, waiting to be let in on a joke. No joke was forthcoming.

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said absently, arriving at one of the last few doors. He typed in a code rapidly on the keypad, smiling as it opened and he tugged Greg in.

“Only you would have codes to get into your bedroom,” Greg muttered. Mycroft tsked as he walked over to the drawers, pulling out a pair of silk pyjamas. What was it with silk? Greg wondered. He didn’t think there was much fantastic about it, really, although it could most definitely be used in various ways in bed.

“Gregory?” Mycroft inquired. Greg was startled to realize he’d been staring at Mycroft’s pyjamas, pondering exactly what he could do to the man once he was wearing them. He forced his gaze back to Mycroft’s face, raising his eyebrows in response. Mycroft sat the silk pyjamas down on the bed, briefly rummaging around for another set. These were cotton, and faded - if Greg didn’t know better, he would’ve guessed they were ones from his apartment. “These should fit well.” Mycroft waited for Greg’s acknowledgment before he picked up his own pyjamas and disappeared into the elaborate bathroom.

Greg eyed the cotton boxers on the bottom of the pile. Of course he would know his underwear size. Greg considered the possibility that Mycroft had done some snooping while Greg was asleep back at his flat. Probably. Or he had his assistant do it. Or both. He shook his head in fond amusement as he put on his clean pyjamas, although the shirt remained in his hands. The simplicity of the room caught his attention, and absently he put the shirt on the large bed and wandered around.

It was clean and simple, with an understated elegance that mirrored its owner. The king-sized four-poster bed had gossamer silk draping between each post, curtaining the deep blue sheets and the slightly lighter pillow cases. Blue seemed like such an odd colour compared to the dark tan and cherry of the rest of the wood and room, but to each their own. He took in the drawers and the low row of bookcases, noting with interest that the spines had been custom made.

The bathroom door opened and Greg crouched down, staring at the contents of the bookcases. The spines were quiet and nondescript, a symbolic code that Greg didn’t recognise. He glanced back, only to notice Mycroft staring at him. Standing up, he scratched the back of his head. “Sorry, just figured I’d have a look around.”

Mycroft was quiet, and Greg realized he had left the shirt on the bed and was bare chested. He glanced down at himself and shrugged. “I can put the shirt on, if you want,” he said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his gaze firmly on Greg’s chest. “Or not,” he added, amused. Greg walked over to Mycroft, inherently curious as to the politician’s reaction. Mycroft finally tore his gaze from Greg’s abs to his face, a light flush on his cheeks. “It’s sexy, you know, watching you stare at me.” Greg was rewarded when Mycroft blushed just a bit more.

“Oh is it,” Mycroft murmured, lifting a hand yet hesitating to put it on Greg’s chest. Greg slid forward just a bit more, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth as Mycroft’s hands seemed to take on a life of their own. The slightly tentative hands slid over Greg’s pectoral muscles, tweaking his nipples lightly as they did so, down to his ribs and then his abdominal muscles, exploring the unfamiliar skin as they did so.

“Mm, damn sexy.” Greg slid farther forward, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders and capturing the man’s lips in a kiss. Mycroft’s slight gasp opened his mouth enough for Greg to nibble tantalizingly on his upper lip, daring Mycroft to reciprocate. Greg was pleasantly surprised when Mycroft moved his hands lower, to hook in the waistband of Greg’s pyjama pants, and then Mycroft was kissing him back, all eager tongue and moving lips. “Bed?”

“Bed,” Mycroft confirmed breathily, maneuvering so that Greg’s knees were lined up with the dark-sheeted bed.

“I think we need to do something about this.” One of Greg’s hands plucked lightly at Mycroft’s waistband. He paused, a slight frown creasing his face, as Mycroft tensed underneath him. Putting his hands on Mycroft, he shifted the two so that Mycroft was on the bottom. Mycroft laid back on the bed, watching Greg intently, hungry yet wary at the same time. Setting his hands on either side of Mycroft’s body, Greg leaned down to capture Mycroft’s mouth with his own. Mycroft tentatively mimicked Greg’s motions, growing more and more confident until he was in control of the kiss. That was definitely an advantage to kissing a Holmes, even an inexperienced one - they were quick learners.

Greg settled his body against Mycroft’s, grinding their hips together and eliciting a surprised moan from the auburn-haired man underneath him. Greg’s mouth drifted to his ear, nibbling briefly at his earlobe. Mycroft gasped and writhed under Greg, causing their erections to rub together. Greg moaned, trailing his kisses from Mycroft’s ear to his neck, tonguing the hollow of his pale neck and loving how Mycroft flinched underneath him. “So responsive,” he murmured, his nose in the hollow of Mycroft’s neck. “You’re wearing far too many clothes…” Mycroft tensed under him, and Greg licked the hollow of his throat again, lingering. “We’ll go a little bit at a time, okay?”

Mycroft nodded underneath him, fingers working swiftly to undo the top button. Greg nosed downwards as soon as he was done, nuzzling the skin he could reach. He trailed down the silk, tonguing his nipples through the rapidly dampening fabric, rolling the nipple his mouth wasn’t on with his fingers as he worked. Greg smiled as he elicited a surprised moan from the man below him.

Greg oomphed as Mycroft seized his shoulders and flipped him over. Definitely a quick learner, Greg thought, as Mycroft’s lips mouthed their way down his neck and onto his chest. Greg could feel Mycroft’s confidence grow as his motions became surer, and the author moaned appreciatively when Mycroft tongued a circle around his nipple. Shivering under Mycroft’s touch, he felt Mycroft smirk as he went lower, nuzzling the trail of hair that led down below Greg’s waistband. Mycroft pulled back, staring thoughtfully at Greg’s cloth-covered erection. Greg reached down and gently pulled Mycroft up to his level, claiming his mouth with his own. He used the change in positions to flip them over and regained control again.

Slipping a hand down to their waists, he cupped Mycroft’s cock and testicles through the silk fabric. Mycroft moaned into Greg’s mouth, his hands clenching briefly in the band of Greg’s pyjamas. “Yes?” Greg asked, stroking the wet patch forming at the front of Mycroft’s bottoms with his thumb. Mycroft nodded vigorously and Greg laughed, capturing his mouth again. He slid his hand into Mycroft’s bottoms, carefully stroking the hard, pulsing flesh in his hand. It wasn’t long before he could feel Mycroft trembling underneath him, his orgasm approaching rapidly. Greg panted against his shoulder, his own cock aching in his pyjamas. A few more strokes and Mycroft moaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he came all over his silk-covered abdomen. Greg couldn’t wait any longer, and he shoved his hand down his own bottoms. He was already quite hard - it had been more arousing than he had anticipated to bring the politician to orgasm, to destroy his careful, quiet control. “God - oh god, Mycroft…” Greg shuddered and came, the viscuous fluid mingling with Mycroft’s on the taller man’s silk top.

It fell quiet between them, both men fighting to get their breathing under control. Slowly Mycroft’s eyes opened and focused back on the author, who was watching him with a faint, anxious look. Mycroft’s eyes flickered between Greg and the wall, as if he wasn’t certain if it was okay to look.

“I have a lack of knowledge in this department, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, shifting slightly as Greg slipped himself back into his bottoms and settled next to him, looking around for a cloth to wipe Mycroft off with..

“God you’re wordy.” Greg leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, still basking in the glow of his orgasm.

“You could say that,” Mycroft said quietly. Carefully he got up, staring distastefully at the drying fluid on his silk shirt. He carefully gathered another set of pyjamas before he disappearing into the bathroom. “There’s a second set for you in the draw,” he called out through the door. Greg got up and rummaged through it, pulling out an identical set of clothing to what he had wore prior to his debauchment. He changed rapidly, careful to place the dirty clothes in a laundry hamper.

Greg stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. That had gone better than he had expected - and farther, too. A smile quirked up the edge of his lips and he glanced over to see Mycroft open the bathroom door. He had changed completely - couldn’t have mismatching pyjamas, apparently.

Mycroft crawled into the bed without any prompting, briefly staring at Greg’s crotch before he settled down next to the slightly shorter man. Greg watched him curiously. There was the slightest fidget to Mycroft’s fingers, something anxious in the way he plucked at the cuffs of his pyjama top. “Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft said simply. He leaned forward, although he hesitated briefly, and pressed a kiss to Greg’s lips.

“No problem,” he said. “Although I’m not sure why you’re thanking me.” He looked Mycroft over, enjoying the view and assessing the politician’s state of mind. Mycroft was scrolling rapidly through a message on his mobile, a more serious expression on his face.

He paused, a slight frown on his face. “Isn’t that the proper thing to do?”

“Oh, c’mere, you.” Greg pulled the mobile out of Mycroft’s hand, settling it on the nightstand before pulling Mycroft snug up against him, nuzzling his hair, amused and affectionate. “You’re adorable.”

Mycroft made an undignified noise. “I’m not adorable.” He paused. “I’m a Holmes. We’re not supposed to be adorable.”

Greg pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, shifting so that Mycroft was laying half on him, an arm over Greg's middle and his head on Greg's chest. “You’re very adorable.” Mycroft murmured a protest this time, settling against Greg as he did so. He shifted again, and again, to the point that Greg looked down at him, amused.

“Could we…” Mycroft paused. “I liked it the other way.” Greg grinned down at him, shifting so that his back was offered to the taller man. Mycroft moved so that he was pressed against Greg's back, his lips worrying the nape of Greg's neck. He slipped an arm possessively about Greg’s waist. “Thank you.”

“Adorable,” Greg teased, snuggling closer to his - he paused. “So.”

“Mm?” Mycroft asked, absentmindedly stroking Greg's abdomen with his long fingers, cautious and exploring.

“What are you, anyways?” It wasn’t a discussion he’d normally had to have - normally he was with those that were more established in their sexuality and in what they were looking for in a relationship - but this was Mycroft, and Mycroft did things differently. “To me, I mean,” he added, correctly interpreting Mycroft’s raised eyebrow. “Boyfriend? Lover?”

Mycroft’s fingertips were slowly drawing designs on Greg’s abdomen now, although Greg didn't think he was intentionally attempting to distract him. He was somewhat glad they’d ended up the way they did, hoping that Mycroft not having to face him when they talked would allow him to talk more freely. Sometimes it was disconcerting to face someone when one was discussing something that had certain - connotations. “I like the first one,” he admitted shyly. Greg caught his doodling hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing it briefly.

“Boyfriend it is, then.” A finger lingered on Greg's lips, and he playfully licked and nibbled at it, grinning when Mycroft stiffled a startled squeak and withdrew the hand. Mycroft's hand fluttered, as if he wasn't certain where to place it. "I won't bite, promise," Greg told him, not at all apologetic.

“I do have to be up early,” he said regretfully, putting the arm back around Greg's abdomen, fingers loosely tracing the faintly defined muscles of his stomach.

“I’m an early riser,” Greg answered with a shrug. The pair lapsed into a comfortable silence, and it was less than a minute before Greg was asleep, held carefully and tenderly by the auburn-haired politician.

“Gregory.” Greg made a small noise when his name chimed in his ear, attempting to roll over before realizing he was attempting to roll onto of another human being and while that was always lovely, it was much more lovely if he was coherent while doing so. He forced his eyes open, realizing he was partially on top of a rather amused Mycroft. “Good morning.”

“’Morning,” Greg muttered, rubbing one of his eyes as he blinked a few times to bring the world into clear focus. Mycroft smiled and kissed the tip of his nose before he slid out from underneath him. Greg made a noise of protest, making grabby hands mid-air to try and get Mycroft to come back.

“I have to get ready, Gregory,” Mycroft admonished, fussing and adjusting his pyjamas. Greg watched with sleepy amusement. Only Mycroft would make sure his pyjamas were neat before taking them off. There was almost a giddy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched the auburn-haired man, intensifying whenever Mycroft caught him watching and smiled shyly.

Mycroft opened his wardrobe and Greg watched him select what he wanted to wear for the day. “Wear the dark gray one. It makes your arse look fantastic.” Mycroft’s hand stopped on the suit Greg had been talking about, a mingled expression of surprise, confusion, and mild doubt lingering on his face. Greg propped his head up on his hand, laying on his side, facing Mycroft. “It does. Promise.”

“I’m not exactly certain that I should encourage the other politicians to look at my arse,” Mycroft said doubtfully, glancing at Greg before looking back at the suit. Appearing to make up his mind, Mycroft took the suit and disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later, Greg heard the shower turn on, and he smiled. He wondered what Mycroft would do if he walked in there. Probably freak out. Politely, of course. Rolling onto his back, he closed his eyes, dozing in and out while Mycroft was in the shower. The door cracked open, jolting him out of his light doze, and Mycroft walked out. He had the trousers on and his shirt, although the cuffs were rolled up to his elbows, the cuff links making distinctive shapes in one of Mycroft’s pockets.

Mycroft looked intently through his ties, and Greg couldn’t help the way the corner of his lips curled up in a half-smile. He never dressed himself with that much concentration, and it was oddly fascinating to watch Mycroft. Mycroft glanced over at the last pieces of his suit hanging in the wardrobe, carefully pulling a tie down and slipping it about his neck. He tied it easily, adjusting it slightly before walking over to slip on his waistcoat.

Greg was delighting in just watching the man get dressed. He hadn’t even seen Mycroft naked, yet watching him pick out his clothes for the day was surprisingly sexy. It was then that it hit him that he didn’t have any day clothes for him. “Fuck,” he muttered. Mycroft merely glanced at him, nodding his head towards the dresser that had contained Greg’s pyjamas the night before.

“You don’t have to use such vulgar language, Gregory,” Mycroft admonished.

“I’ll say it if I want to,” Greg muttered, crawling out of bed and walking over to the dresser. “Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said sternly, carefully rolling down his sleeves and pulling his cufflinks out of his pocket and placing them in their spots.

“Fuck,” Greg retorted, surprised to see more of a variety in the dresser than he had seen the night before. “Where’d this stuff come from?” Mycroft walked over to peer in at what Greg was looking at.

“Anthea,” Mycroft mused, slipping on his suit jacket. Greg rolled his eyes, turning to his boyfriend.

“You’re going to fuss yourself to death, you silly git,” he chided, tugging briefly on the jacket to finish adjusting it and standing back. “You look amazing.” He spun a tolerant Mycroft to the side, looking up and down. “And your arse looks fantastic.” Mycroft allowed a smile to slide across his face, and Greg winked.

“That’s physically impossible, Gregory.” Mycroft smoothed his lapels one last time, ignoring a long-suffering sigh from the dark-haired man next to him. Greg was back to staring at the variety of clothes in the draws. He didn’t even want to think about how Anthea apparently knew quite so much about him and the clothes he liked to wear. Even the pants were scarily accurate, very similar to ones he had about his flat.

“Do I want to know how she knew what kind of pants I liked?” he thought out loud, fingering the cotton of the pair he had decided on before setting it on top of the drawer. Mycroft coughed and Greg looked up at him, eyebrows raised in slight suspicion. “Or did you have a hand in all of this?”

Mycroft adjusted his tie, studiously avoiding Greg’s gaze. It didn’t work as well as he would have liked, as there was a light blush dusting his cheeks. “She’s quite perceptive.”

“That’s not an answer,” Greg pointed out, settling on a pair of jeans and a loose, comfortable shirt that would serve well when paired with Greg’s favorite cotton pyjama bottoms. He didn’t exactly fancy facing the paparazzi in pyjamas, so jeans would have to do.

“There’s a jacket by the door, in case you want that.” Mycroft peered past the bedroom door, ignoring Greg’s skeptical look.

“There’s no bloody way you can see all the way to the front door, Mycroft. Don’t you try to pull one over on me,” Greg said with a snort. He slid off his pyjama trousers and then his pants, noticing with amusement as Mycroft stared. It was never a bad feeling, Greg decided, pulling on the clean pair of pants before slipping on the jeans and then the shirt. Mycroft’s gaze made its way to Greg’s face. Greg smirked, enjoying the blush that rose high on Mycroft’s cheeks when he did so.

This Mycroft - the Mycroft in this hidden room, in the bed - was so vastly different than the one that Greg had first met. The one that had tried to intimidate him into submission, who handled (presumably) secret business matters with ease. They were like two vastly different people, and Greg was absolutely tickled to have a chance to get the latter into his bed. Well, he mused, technically he’d gone into Mycroft’s bed this time, but that was semantics and who the fuck really cared whose bed was used. Greg certainly wasn’t about to squabble. A bed was a bed, as long as Mycroft was in it.

“Gregory?” Mycroft tilted his head slightly towards the door, and Greg sighed in an exaggerated fashion.

“If we must,” he said. Leaning forward, he planted a kiss on Mycroft’s slightly parted lips before poking his head out of the bedroom door. Debating briefly, he strode off to the left, hoping it was the right direction. A slight, amused cough behind him had him doing a 180 degree turn and walking the other way. Greg ignored Mycroft’s amused look as he walked by. “I meant to do that.” He tweaked Mycroft’s nose and continued leading him through the maze, allowing himself to slow and get distracted when he saw things that particularly interested him.

“You have quite the collection of paintings,” Greg murmured, his eyes lingering on a waterfall painting he found rather attractive. It was simple yet elegant, the mossy rocks parted by the flow of the water, pouring into a wide, shallow pool at the base of the rock formation.

“Quite.” Mycroft inclined his head, looking over the painting that Greg was examining. “This is one of my favorites.”

“Any particular reason why?” Greg inquired. His gaze flickered to Mycroft and then back to the painting, trying to absorb as much detail as he could about the surroundings. It looked oddly familiar, like it was a place he had seen a picture of before but never visited.

“I commissioned it,” Mycroft said softly. His eyes were warm and wistful in a way that Greg had never seen before, and he shifted closer. “It was a place that was - was very dear to me as a child.”

“So you’ve been there?” Greg couldn’t help the thread of envy that crept into his voice as he peered closer at the painting. “It looks fantastic. Gorgeous and peaceful.”

“It was,” Mycroft said shortly. Something flickered over his face, something Greg couldn't catch, and something about the politician's demeanour shifted. He started walking again, not waiting for Greg to catch up to him. “Are you coming?”

“You git,” Greg muttered, lengthening his strides just a bit to catch up with the slightly taller man. “Two bloody inches and you think you’re Superman.” Mycroft paused to look at him, clearly confused. “Superman. You know - the comic character?” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “You have got to see some old TV shows.” Greg shook his head in disbelief. He took advantage of Mycroft’s surprise to dart ahead. “They’re classics, Mycroft.”

Mycroft humoured him by allowing him to keep the lead for a few more strides. “Of course, Gregory.” As a retort Greg stopped. Mycroft apparently didn't notice, for he walked straight into Greg, nearly tipping the two of them over. “Gregory?” he asked, a tremour in his voice betraying his uncertainty.

Greg turned around, his eyes wide. Mycroft frowned slightly, apparently bewildered by Greg's complete change in demeanour. Perfect. Then his eyes flickered behind Greg, as if attempting to determine if something had stopped him. While he was staring intently behind Greg, Greg took the moment to wind his arms around Mycroft’s neck and plant a kiss on the auburn-haired man’s lips. Mycroft took a slight step back in surprise before slipping an arm about Greg’s shoulders in return, relaxing into the kiss.

Eventually they separated. Mycroft’s eyes kept flickering to the area behind Greg, still skeptical. Greg chuckled. “There’s not anything there, Mycroft.”

Mycroft frowned, about to object, when understanding showed in his gaze. “You were distracting me,” he said. Greg grinned as Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and kissed him again before practically skipping the rest of the way down the hall. There was a new addition to the coat rack. It seemed like it would fit him rather well. He slipped on the snug coat and zipped it up. It fit quite nicely, and Greg checked himself out in a mirror in the entry way. Greg turned to notice Mycroft watching him with an amused smile. He snorted and stuck his tongue out at Mycroft before he paused at the door.

“After you,” Greg said cheekily, bowing. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt so oddly playful, but he did. Mycroft stared quizzically at him for a few seconds - like Greg was an odd bug under his microscope, and it was oddly reminiscent of their first meeting and that made Greg smile - before he continued through the door towards the unmarked black car loitering at the front of the building.

Greg followed him, a slight bounce to his step as he slid into the car next to Mycroft. It was probably the sleep deprivation making him go crazy, he decided. Anthea was sitting in the seat opposite them, typing rapidly on the keyboard of her phone. She said nothing to Mycroft and Mycroft said nothing back, yet she nodded and settled back against the car seat. Greg frowned. He had watched Mycroft carefully, and Anthea as well, yet no eyebrow movements this time. Had they noticed Greg watching and used some other secret method of communication? He decided this deserved further study. Hiding a grin, he sat back next to Mycroft, who turned to stare at him curiously.

“You can drop me off at the park,” Greg offered. Mycroft raised an eyebrow before nodding sharply. Anthea’s fingers danced about on the phone for a few brief seconds before nodding in return. “That way it’s not quite so conspicuous, and you’re less likely to be seen.” The car fell quiet and Greg looked out the window, watching the coloured rays dance about the sky as the sun rose. “It’s quite pretty, early in the morning.”

“Why, Gregory,” Mycroft remarked, “You’re starting to sound like a poet.” Greg snorted in the seat next to him, pressing his leg against Mycroft’s in an attempt to rebuke what he said. Soon they lapsed back into silence, with Greg’s hand on Mycroft’s leg and Mycroft’s fingers twined in with Greg’s. It was a comfortable silence, and Greg basked in it. Although it was punctuated occasionally by Anthea’s frustrated (yet composedly so) noises at the phone and the hum of the car they were in.

“We’re here.” Anthea’s voice was quiet, although it shattered the quiet, companiable atmosphere. Mycroft looked at Greg and Greg smiled slightly, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Text me when you have some free time?” Greg tilted his head, grinning at Mycroft.

Mycroft grimaced and it was enough to send Greg’s heart tumbling. “I will do my best, Gregory,” he promised. “I’m not wholly certain how often I will be in England.”

“Well, just don’t destroy my phone bill,” Greg mumbled. Mycroft pressed another kiss to his lips, apologetic and sweet and it just made Greg want to melt and not let go of him, made him want to demand that Mycroft came up to his flat with him and - something. Mycroft was Mycroft - there was no denying that - but he was also sweet and charismatic and quite fine to look at on top of it. Squeezing his hand one last time, Greg cracked open the door and stepped out into the sunshine, a slight smile on his face. He moved swiftly away from the car, although he twisted his head back in an attempt to catch sight of Mycroft beneath the heavy tint of the windows. Slowly, reluctantly the car drove away. Greg fancied it was so Mycroft could get good glimpse of him standing there.

With a sigh, he turned around. Time to get back to reality. Thrusting his shoulders back, Greg started the short walk to his apartment. He felt a bit naked, without his normal paparazzi disguise, and he realized he must have left them at Mycroft's. He grinned. More incentive to go back, and the sooner the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am planning to eventually re-write this, but for now, it is on hiatus. I also cannot guarantee that I will get around to finishing it, so there is a real possibility that it might not be finished. My most sincere apologies.


End file.
